


the muse

by d_claiborne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Long-Distance Friendship, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Letters, M/M, Pining, very minor mentions of off-screen period-typical homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 18:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14939273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d_claiborne/pseuds/d_claiborne
Summary: At the dawn of 1884, Castiel decides to leave New York and pursue his dream of becoming an artist. At the dawn of 1884, the night before he is to board the ship that will carry him across the ocean from America to England, Castiel meets Dean Winchester. At the dawn of 1884, Castiel falls in love for the first time.





	1. PART I

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written in years and I am _so_ incredibly happy that it's this one. Here's why!
> 
> It's entirely, 100%, because of Busysquirrel, whose art I was lucky enough to claim, and who (very patiently!) listened to all my ideas and general flailing as I proceeded to write them down and make them into a story. Thank you for everything! <3
> 
> You can check out all the amazing artwork [HERE](https://bs-acorns.tumblr.com/post/174918904558/the-muse-dcrb-art-masterpost).
> 
> Another huge thank you goes out to Niki (@[niksofficial](http://niksofficial.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr). Her beta work, notes and ideas have made this fic so much better and I am so incredibly grateful.
> 
> The story itself is very dear to my heart and I hope it makes for an enjoyable read.

**PART I:**

 

**I HAVE FOR THE FIRST TIME FOUND WHAT I CAN TRULY LOVE**

 

_(Charlotte Bronte / Jane Eyre)_

  
  


Castiel stood on the Brooklyn Bridge and peered down at the New York harbour. _Leviathan_ , the ocean liner his mother had bought him a first-class ticket for, was swaying gently on the water. Or so Castiel imagined - his eyesight didn’t allow him to see that far. He was trying to capture the view with a piece of charcoal in his right hand and a sketchbook in the left.

 

His mother was always telling him that he was “doing his best to live his life through imagined pictures,” instead of simply living it.

 

Castiel had a normal relationship with his mother, for the 1880s, therefore he disagreed with much of what she had to say. If he had to agree with her on one thing, though, it would have been the fact that he really did prefer the life inside to the world outside.

 

It was rather windy that day, playing with his hair and with the lapels of his topcoat. He absent-mindedly stretched the fingers of his right hand, partially numb from the cold, before looking back down and fixing the crooked line of a boat’s sails that he’d botched up.

 

Sighing heavily, he let the idea go. He tucked his sketchbook under his arm, and the piece of charcoal slipped easily back into his pocket.

 

With the tips of his fingers blackened, he left the bridge, avoiding the glances of strangers.

 

He walked across the neighborhoods, passing Ladies’ Mile, crowded with hundreds of people spending money they’d owe at the end of the day or money they’d lost gambling the night before, listening to their conversations as he passed.

 

New York, to Castiel, had always been about the sounds. The clamor of carriages rushing by. The chatter of people discussing weather and art (or cockfights and brothels, depending on what kind of people you met). It was the crackling lampposts lighting each street, the drunk girls laughing loudly as the night kept ticking by, the local bars. It was never the mansion his father had had built for their family, nor the expensive clothes he owned.

 

His view of New York was skewed anyhow - he averted his eyes from the poor, avoided the neighborhoods his friends warned him away from, sidestepped the slums where disease ran rampant -  lived in a shell. To think that the idea of New York he knew and held dear was false saddened him deeply, making his heart drop to his stomach each time it crossed his mind. He promised himself that although he had to leave it, he wouldn’t make the same mistake in Liverpool, London, or anywhere else in the world. _I shall be present there as I have never been here and live to regret it_ , he told himself with a smile.

 

Castiel walked towards Broadway - he decided to walk everywhere that day. He stopped a few streets away from the display of shops, saloons and theatres that Broadway was and descended down into the basement-turned-beer cellar of a brownstone house.

 

There was only a handful of people at this hour and Castiel had no trouble picking out Balthazar in the crowd.

 

“Tell me - how many hours have you spent in this fine establishment already?” he asked teasingly as he approached the Englishman and settled on the stool next to him.

 

Balthazar looked at him with a smirk. He looked about as dishevelled as always - his ascot lay on the bar, his waistcoat unbuttoned.

 

“Lager, my dear, is a man’s best friend.”

 

“Don’t tell my mother. She thinks that of dogs.” Castiel put his sketchbook down but decided to keep his topcoat on. He didn’t fancy this place. If asked, he’d much rather spend his last night in New York in a place with windows, not some underground den.

 

Balthazar sighed. “Why are you always so mean to her? She’s a darling.”

 

“And do not,” Castiel told him, “talk about my mother as if she were a young damsel in distress. I can’t stomach it.” Naomi Milton was a marvellous host, a _darling_ to strangers, and a terror of a mother.

 

“I apologize for being a gentleman,” said Balthazar. “Are we changing joints?” he asked when he noticed that, while Castiel may have sat down, he still looked ready to go.

 

“Please.”

 

“Only if you let me pick.”

 

Castiel hesitated. He knew that Balthazar was a good fellow and a straight man _most_ of the time - but he knew his way around places like this, or [Five Points](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Five_Points,_Manhattan). He had friends around the Bowery and likely knew every prostitute in the city, regardless of their gender. Balthazar could certainly be trusted as a friend, but perhaps not as a drinking partner.

 

Then again, this was Castiel’s last night in the great city. It felt like he was leaving an entire era behind him. It could be good, to be guided by someone who seemed to inhabit the city so fully.

 

Besides, were Castiel a gambler, he would have bet all his money that Balthazar would pick a place that Castiel’s mother would abhor. In the end, that’s what mattered to him most.

  


**xxx**

  


To Castiel’s disappointment, Balthazar picked a more or less decent bar on Broadway called _Harvelle’s Hide_. Secretly, Castiel was hoping for a concert saloon at best, an underground gambling establishment at worst.

 

“I certainly didn’t expect you to complain the place was too decent,” Balthazar said when Castiel muttered a slightly negative comment. “Should we leave?”

 

“No. It will do.”

 

Castiel looked around. It was no place for the elite, but it was no place for any of the gangs either. He saw top hats on the bar and waitresses wearing a considerable amount of clothing. A place like this would be only mildly disappointing to his mother. At least the odor of gin and cigar smoke floated through the air. Perhaps it would cling to his clothes and skin.

 

“I see a couple of spots there, by the bar,” Castiel said, unbuttoning his coat with one hand. Balthazar followed and they sat down by a group of older gentlemen.

 

Behind the bar stood a middle-aged woman with her greying sand-colored hair pinned up in an elegant French twist. Though her dress was a little loose and arguing current fashion, her face was set in a hard expression. Castiel had no idea who she was, but if he had to guess, he’d guess she was the owner. A certain aura of authority resonated around her.

 

They both ordered gin, Dutch genever for starters.

 

“Are you ready for your last night in the city?” Balthazar asked, once again getting rid of his ascot and opening his waistcoat.

 

Castiel thumbed the spine of his sketchbook, remembering his view from the Brooklyn Bridge. “I may not be ready to leave the city, but generally speaking, I’ve been ready to leave it for a long time.”

 

Balthazar smirked. “You’re a strange man, my friend.”

 

“So I’ve been told,” Castiel countered. He sipped his drink.

 

Their talk faded a little. There was no reason for them to be friends in the first place, or so Castiel thought - and he suspected that Balthazar felt the same. For Castiel, befriending him was a sort of secret rebellion against his mother; he had strained against her strict rules from a very young age, therefore he gravitated toward art and found passion in it, and toward questionable people. Balthazar, it seemed, simply wanted company, and seemed not to care in whom he found it.

 

They’d spent many evenings together, mostly in bars, Balthazar introducing him to other artists passing through New York and going on towards greater adventure. Castiel envied them - he dreamed of vast landscapes, of western railroads and women who still wore crinolines amidst the dusty desert. At first, he simply dreamed of getting out and finding something _more_ , but it slowly evolved. He didn’t want to just see the world - he wanted capture it, to paint it all. The more certain he grew of who he wanted to be, the easier it was to slowly create a distance between him and Naomi. Yes, he loved New York - but he’d always dreamed of other places, after all. While he was sad to leave this, he’d been long ready for it. Knowing men like Balthazar helped him create this confidence, even if he had nothing to say to them at the end of the day.

 

When Balthazar excused himself to greet a pair of familiar faces, Castiel didn’t mind much.

 

He finally ordered the cocktail he’d wanted to have all night - the Sherry Cobbler, a delicious mix of oranges and sherry - and drained the glass in one go. Then he ordered another one.

 

The drink was sweet but strong. On an empty stomach and paired with just the right mood, one could easily get very drunk. Castiel, for example, hadn’t eaten anything since his early lunch and he considered his mood to be just right for it, so he soon found himself in a warm, relaxed state.

 

He looked around the bar, once again noticing the woman standing behind it and the people occupying the bar stools around him. He felt the familiar itch in the tips of his fingers to take out his charcoal and turn to a clean spread in his sketchbook, but he decided to resist the urge. _Living in the present begins now,_ he told himself.

 

He soon became slightly tipsy and a bit bored, however. Balthazar didn’t seem to be coming back anytime soon, if at all. Castiel couldn’t blame him, but without his companionship, the loud conversation all around quickly became isolating. But he wasn’t ready to leave. He reached for his sketchbook to occupy himself, and searched the room for a subject.

 

“Simply pick a stranger,” he murmured to himself.

 

He winced when he saw the drawing from earlier that day, wishing he could tear it out and throw it away. He kept all his work, though, for reference. The lines in this one were clumsy, the shading too dark and the picture carried nothing of the atmosphere Castiel had been so adamantly trying to portray.

 

Sighing, he turned to the next page, mercifully untouched.

 

Now came his favorite part: Castiel was an excellent observer of people.

 

In the eyes of his mother, most people today seemed quite mundane and all the same. But Castiel knew better. Everyone had something special about them, whether it was the way the older men played with their moustaches to calm their nerves, or the way the ladies pressed their fingers against their brooches, as if to make sure they remained secured in their spot.

 

It was the gentle movement of their knuckles or the specific way their eyes twinkled when looking upon their companion, or perhaps it was a quirk of the lips trying to go unnoticed.

 

Some had a rare, bell-like laugh or a small sound they always made. The fact they were sounds sounds, therefore not visual, made them difficult to capture, but it certainly never stopped Castiel from trying.

 

It was quite difficult to choose that night. The people around him seemed to blur at their lines - seemingly grey, uninteresting. Castiel knew it was the anxiety he felt in the pit of his own stomach that made him blind to the world around him, but he felt dissatisfied at it anyhow.

 

And then his eyes fell upon a man standing by the bar opposite him.

 

The man leaned against the hard surface, elbow down, shoulder loose. On the bar lay a topcoat with a heavy black velvet collar, on top of that, a cane. He was laughing loudly, with his head thrown back. His teeth were strikingly white and perfect, even in the dim light. Castiel stared as the man’s mouth opened wide in gaiety - boyish freckles spread across his cheeks, but the wrinkles that spider-webbed around his eyes belied his age. His lips were full, set against a symmetrical, clean-shaven face, framed by a crown of styled hair. His clothes were perfectly tailored, hugging his body as if they were made for it. Castiel found him… astounding, for no reason he could understand. There was not a single detail about this man that didn’t send a shiver down Castiel’s spine.

 

Lost in thought, Castiel licked his lower lip. It only took a second, maybe less, to decide which person at the bar he wanted to draw.

 

He decided to sketch the eyes first. There was something about the man’s eyes that pulled Castiel in every time he looked up to get another glance at them. Even across the bar, Castiel saw the strange deep shade of green - perhaps it was a play of light that made them stand out so.

 

His mind was reeling. This was different than sketching on the bridge. He was entirely absorbed in moments. He couldn’t quite focus - as he dragged the charcoal down in a swift line, tracing the man’s cheek and chin, he was already thinking of the best way to capture his mouth, undoubtedly the most beautiful part of the man’s face. Castiel noticed the way it trembled when he was listening intently, the way his lips stretched as he smiled, the way the mouth remained open when he concentrated on the gentleman talking to him. Those lips were the most expressive, far more than the flutter of the man’s eyelashes or the slight tilt of his head.

 

Castiel lost himself in the sketch, feeling heated. He hadn’t felt this kind of fire in months, perhaps longer. He remembered this passion vaguely from when he’d first discovered that painting was something he could do - that feeling that said _Should I stop doing this, I would die._

 

It felt like that now. _If I can’t bring this man to life on paper, there is no point._

 

Castiel seldom got caught in the act. Then again, he usually never lost focus of the real world around him like he did tonight.

 

Bent over the sketchbook, he failed to notice when the stranger left his position at the bar. What’s worse, Castiel _absolutely_ failed to notice that he got up and walked all the way to him.

 

“That’s quite the drawing,” the man said as he stood behind Castiel’s back. “I’m not sure you got my nose right, however.”

 

Castiel gasped, startled. He could feel his heart sink to his stomach. Fighting the urge to cover up the sketch with his palm was nearly impossible. “I beg your pardon?” he squeezed out instead and turned around to face the man, well aware that his cheeks had to be crimson red at this point.

 

The man grinned. “Yes, I accept your apology. Now are you going to fix my nose?”

 

Castiel looked at him with awe. He didn’t even comprehend what was being asked of him for a second or two, but when he finally got the message, his cheeks probably got even redder somehow. The man was somehow more attractive at this proximity, and Castiel wasn’t sure if he could comply with the request without his hands shaking like a child’s.

 

It certainly didn’t help when the man decided to strike a pose. He leaned against the bar much like he had been leaning against it when Castiel started sketching him. He wasn’t in Castiel’s personal space, exactly, but when he turned so that Castiel could see his profile - and his nose, of course - he was still… incredibly _there_.

 

“Ah,” Castiel exhaled. He felt like an idiot. He fumbled with his charcoal and the sketchbook. “Yes. Right.” It seemed awkward to stare at the man now that he’d actually been given permission, but he convinced himself to take a good look.

 

The man’s lips were slightly parted even now, still in a small smile, but Castiel tried to pay attention to the nose. He was right - he had sketched it too quickly so he could move on to the mouth, and the angle was off.

 

Now he stared at the nose before him. It resembled that of Michelangelo’s David - smooth and as symmetrical as the rest of the face. The more Castiel looked on, the more his surroundings started to blur. Even the color of them seemed to change a little - they felt warmer, yet lighter somehow.

 

Reality came back with a harsh snap when Castiel finally made himself look away.

 

He fixed the sketched nose to the best of his abilities, which he’d started doubting even before the man approached him. Not that he didn’t trust his skill, but he perhaps didn’t trust it in capturing a face like this gentleman’s.

 

“Better, I hope,” Castiel said, handing the sketchbook with the drawing over.

 

The man shuffled closer, hopping up onto the bar stool next to Castiel without asking, and looked at the drawing.

 

“Perfect,” he replied after a few seconds. Also without asking, he tore the page out and it disappeared in his pocket underneath his waistcoat. Castiel thought it only fair after he’d practically spied on him. “I’m Dean Winchester. And you are?”

 

Castiel took the offered hand-shake without hesitating, even though his fingers were coal-black at the tips. “Castiel Milton.”

 

“Might I buy you a drink, Mr. Milton?” asked Mr. Winchester with a smirk. He hadn’t let go of Castiel’s hand. His was warm and big - Castiel’s felt small and lost in it. A good lost.

 

“If you insist,” Castiel said.

 

His night was shaping up to be interesting, after all.

  


**xxx**

  


Needles to say, once he had company, Castiel stopped ordering Sherry Cobblers. They switched to whiskey. Castiel would have gotten drunk anyhow, but whiskey certainly sped up the process.

 

“I had a very early lunch, you see,” Castiel explained after his second - or third? - glass, when his words started to slur a little.

 

“The way I see it, whiskey can be breakfast, lunch _and_ dinner. It depends on your conviction.” Dean laughed and ordered another round.

 

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Winchester?” _I wouldn’t mind_ , Castiel added in his head.

 

Castiel had never… _felt_ much for girls. They were nice, fine for conversation, but they didn’t spark anything in him. When he felt interest, it had always been directed in a more masculine direction. Whenever a peer learned of this, they often assumed he enjoyed the company of boy-whores, wearing dresses and rouging their cheeks, but that was not the case.

 

Castiel actually liked _men_ , men who _looked_ it. Men like this Dean Winchester - tall, with a silhouette that promised a combination of muscle and softness both, a pretty face, though slightly rough around the edges, and fine men’s clothing. Gloves covering big hands, a bowtie accentuating the line of the neck, a waistcoat hugging the body.

 

Dean Winchester’s gloves were off, of course, but his bowtie was a startlingly dark grey color and his waistcoat a beautiful crimson red with a floral pattern also in grey. Dean Winchester looked smooth and expensive, and the more Castiel drank, the more he wanted to reach out and touch him.

 

He felt like he wouldn’t be denied.

 

Castiel wasn’t the only man that preferred the company of other men, after all. Considering how uptight their society looked on the surface, there was a lot more going on underneath. As far as Castiel knew, there were a lot of gentlemen (and ladies) who preferred the company of the same sex. Balthazar, for one, had had always bragged about sleeping with men, sometimes men _and_ women at the same time. Maybe - maybe Mr. Dean Winchester fell in that category as well.

 

“Do call me Dean,” Mr. Winchester said. The bartender pushed another two slim glasses of whiskey their way.

 

Castiel blushed. “Call me Castiel, then.”

 

“Cas for short?” Dean asked. He was already holding his glass, about to take a sip.

 

The red in Castiel’s cheeks deepened again. He hoped Dean would blame it on the alcohol or the light in the establishment. No one had ever called him anything but Castiel. Balthazar called him Cassie sometimes - because according to him, Castiel was about as clean as the next virgin debutante and the least morally impaired so-called bohemian to ever walk the streets of New York. But that was it - he was Castiel to everyone else.

 

“Of course,” Castiel mumbled.

 

They kept on drinking and saying each other’s names. Castiel felt like he should have been Cas all his life.

 

Soon enough, he was telling Dean about his family and why he was leaving - _You’re off? To where? Such a shame we didn’t meet before tonight, isn’t it?_ \- but Dean wasn’t as eager to share too much personal information.

 

“What about your family?” Castiel asked when he saw that Dean wasn’t picking up on the fact that he should share as well. Dean hesitated. “I’m sure I won’t remember a thing you tell me tomorrow morning,” Castiel assured him with a drunk grin.

 

Dean huffed out a laugh. “I have a younger brother. His name is Sam.”

 

“And?”

 

“And that’s it,” Dean concluded. He finished the rest of his whiskey in one go and ordered another one.

 

“Oh.” Castiel realized that he’d made a mistake - he shouldn’t have asked. The mood faltered, but Castiel quickly tried to bring it back up. “My sister, Anna, has married and moved to England. She offered me a room at their house while I’m overseas.”

 

Dean’s face relaxed. “I would have figured you found yourself a nice English lady to marry as well.”

 

Castiel cast his eyes downward. He wasn’t ashamed of who he was - deep inside, he actually thought the sudden flutter of his eyelashes could be seen as flirtatious. “I’d rather paint.”

 

“I see,” said Dean, his voice dropping a little. “You must be rather good at it.”

 

Castiel quickly downed the rest of his whiskey. He’d never actually _gone_ that far with any man, as if he was foolishly saving himself for the one (as if he were a bride waiting to be wed!) but he’d spent many nights fantasizing about it.

 

Besides, there was no harm in joking about it. “Some might agree.”

 

Dean laughed heartily. “Would you like another whiskey?”

 

Castiel nodded without thinking.

 

They gravitated towards each other. Castiel could feel it in the way his chest fluttered each time Dean looked at him and he could feel it in the way they kept moving towards one another on the bar stools. Their knees touched at one point and instead of pulling away, they both pressed closer, enjoying the way the fabric of their trousers brushed.

 

By their fifth glass, Dean’s hand crawled across the bar and he started playing with Castiel’s signet ring.

 

The direct touch, intimate in a way, made Castiel’s heart race. He was far past drunk at this point, and every time the tips of Dean’s fingers caressed Castiel’s as he kept turning the ring round and round the finger, it went straight to Castiel’s loins.

 

“Oh, that was my father’s,” he started babbling in a drunken manner, leaning closer to Dean. “See the crown. The head of the family. I should be wearing it on my ring finger, but I’m no head of the family. So I keep it here, on my little finger. I think it fits me better. What do you think, Mr. Winchester?” He said the name playfully.

 

Dean stopped playing with the ring and took Castiel’s hand in his instead. Palm on palm, Castiel’s breath hitched. “It looks nice. You have beautiful hands.”

 

“So do you,” Castiel replied dreamily. “I am very, very drunk. How are you not drunk?”

 

“Practice makes perfect,” Dean explained casually. He looked Castiel up and down. “You are very drunk, though. We should get out of here.”

 

Castiel’s heart skipped a beat. He wanted to go. Suddenly he wished they were at a saloon that offered rooms upstairs so they could walk up there and have each other. He’d never wanted it to go this way - but he was drunk, Dean Winchester was beautiful and it was Castiel’s last night in the city. He thought he would quite like it if this was how it ended.

 

“Let’s go, then,” Castiel said and stood up.

 

The room swam in a blur around him as he lost his balance. Dean caught his elbow and pulled him up. “Alright, good man. We need to walk this out.”

 

Castiel was more than happy to follow.

  


**xxx**

  


Castiel almost ran for the first carriage he saw as they exited the saloon. Dean pulled him back, saving him from being smashed to pieces under the stomping hooves.

 

“We’re walking, remember?”

 

“That is correct, yes,” Castiel agreed and let himself be pulled back.

 

Castiel’s mind wandered as they walked. He already saw them in his bed. He saw himself unbuttoning Dean’s waistcoat and untucking his shirt, pulling the trousers off his legs and touching him anywhere, everywhere.

 

In his drunken state, Castiel saw the lit-up streets as if they danced. The lights blurred and looked like floating lanterns. Idly, Castiel realized that Dean next to him walked with a slight limp, but didn’t even think to ask him about it.

 

He felt happiness bubbling in his stomach. He wanted to laugh and sing but he didn’t know how to let it all out, so he simply marvelled at the fact that he was walking home side by side with someone like Dean Winchester. He wanted everyone to look at them, not to avert their eyes.

 

People buzzed around them, moving from one bar to the next, and Castiel found himself wishing that the night should never end. They passed brothels and prostitutes male and female lined the streets, looking for customers. Castiel looked at their colorful dresses and rouged lips.

 

“You should know I’ve never set foot in a whorehouse,” Castiel said suddenly.

 

Dean laughed. “Should I?”

 

“Balthazar told me I must be the only New Yorker who’s able to say such a thing and have it be the truth.”

 

“Do you _want_ it to be the truth?” Dean asked.

 

Castiel entered the stage where he was hyper aware of every sound surrounding him. He forgot to answer for a second. Instead, he focused on the persistent _clop-clop_ of Dean’s cane on the street. He glanced down in the lamplight and noticed that it was exquisitely made, with a golden head that resembled an amulet of sorts. He wanted to ask about it when he realized Dean was the one that had asked something.

 

“Oh.” Castiel giggled. “What were you saying?”

 

“Do you want to be the only New Yorker who’s never set foot in a whorehouse?”

 

Castiel considered. He realized that Dean had to be experienced in this area and for a second, he envied every woman or man that ever got paid for servicing him. Castiel didn’t see himself as the whore-type, but he would gladly offer himself to the man by his side.

 

“Perhaps I don’t,” Castiel decided after all.

 

Dean put his arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go, then.”

 

“Now?” Castiel asked, a little alarmed. He saw that they’d changed direction and were walking towards an establishment across the street. Castiel didn’t notice the name of the place, but he noticed the sign outside that proudly announced the guests were entering the first ever brothel to have electricity in 18-something, Castiel didn’t catch the exact year. “I suppose we shall.”

 

The madam that greeted them was wearing an expensive looking black dress that reached all the way to the floor but couldn’t be bothered to rise up very high above her cleavage. Her shoulders were naked and a big necklace sat on her breasts. She looked them up and down and when she saw they were both noblemen, her lips curled into a smile. She seemed to recognize Dean.

 

“Mr. Winchester. We haven’t seen you in a while. I was beginning to think our girls weren’t good enough for you!”

 

“My dearest madam, your girls are the best in the city,” Dean complimented her and leaned down to kiss the back of her hand. “I thought I’d bring a new guest to your fine establishment. I can vouch for him. Mr. Novak, this is Madam Bela Talbot.”

 

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Novak,” the madam said and nodded her head a little. “Mr. Winchester is a treasured guest here. His friends are my friends.”

 

Castiel had sobered up a little since they entered the brickhouse. His reserved manners made a short appearance and he felt a little jumpy. “I’m most delighted to hear that. It’s my pleasure.”

 

“Oh, it shall be,” Ms. Talbot said with a wink directed at Dean.

 

She motioned towards the door on the opposite side of the room and led them that way, showing them to a space that resembled a living room. The decor was all gold with expensive, Oriental-looking rugs covering the floors. Castiel noticed that the madam never left Dean’s side and as they entered, her hand briefly touched his shoulder in an almost intimate gesture.

 

“My girls will be with you in a moment,” she informed them and left the room with a smile.

 

Once they were alone, Castiel relaxed. It dawned on him, where he was - waiting for girls to take him into a room so he could pay for having sex with them. It was bizarre, he’d never actually wished to visit such a place - he suddenly found it funny, the whiskey taking the lead again. He said down on one of the divans and tried to hold in the laughter that threatened to break free.

 

“Madam Bela would like to have me on a silver platter,” Dean said, walking to sit down by Castiel. His limp was obvious now that they weren’t on a crowded street, but Castiel once again decided against asking.

 

Instead, he nodded. “Yes, I noticed. Who could blame her, though?”

 

It was out of his stupid drunk mouth before he could stop himself. He bit his lip a second too late.

 

Dean’s expression was unreadable - at least to Castiel’s drunk eyes - but Castiel hoped he took it as a compliment.

 

They heard distant giggling and girl voices. “We should go,” said Castiel with a nervous laugh.

 

Dean smirked. “I thought you wanted to be a proper New Yorker, Mr. Milton.”

 

“I’ve now set foot in a whorehouse, correct?”

 

“Correct,” Dean replied. He laughed and got up. “Good for you. Let’s go, then.”

 

They escaped the room just as the girls entered it from the door opposite and ran out like children, which made Castiel laugh hysterically. It was the stupidest experience he could have had at a place like this, but he still felt exhilarated.

 

“Would you have preferred it if we’d stayed?” he asked Dean, but he couldn’t hide the smile in his voice.

 

Dean put his arm over Castiel’s shoulders again. Perhaps he had been trying it out before - to see if Castiel would pull away. Castiel sought it out, though, pressing himself into Dean’s side.

 

“No,” Dean replied. “I don’t quite feel like spending tonight with girls, Cas.”

  


**xxx**

  


Their walk took close to two hours - they kept stopping to talk. Well, it was Castiel who kept stopping to talk - Dean just had the patience of a saint, to stop with him and listen to his babbling.

 

Too much whiskey on an empty stomach meant that Castiel was drunk even as they finally rounded the corner and approached the mansion Castiel’s family lived in. He wasn’t _as_ drunk - he could walk and he no longer wanted to go running across busy streets - but his speech was still lazy and much more open than if he were sober.

 

Dean’s limp had grown heavier. Castiel felt a pang of guilt when he realized it had to be the long walk’s fault.

 

“Is your leg alright?” Castiel asked quietly when they got to heavy iron gate of the Milton mansion. It was the only piece of this house that travelled the world - originally forged in Paris, the gate was the only thing that made the transatlantic journey Castiel was to embark on the next day.

 

Dean smiled. “Quite alright,” he said.

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

“Only a little. I’m used to it. No need to worry your pretty head.”

 

 _You think my head is pretty?_ Castiel almost asked. He bit his lip and leaned against the gate. That would have been childish. He wasn’t a girl returning from her very first ball, after all. He was a grown man, and he figured Dean wanted him to act it too.

 

“Because should it hurt,” Castiel started, “perhaps I could make it hurt less?”

 

Castiel was surprised to feel Dean’s hand cupping his cheek. His thumb caressed the length of Castiel’s cheekbone and then went down, tracing the line of Castiel’s bottom lip.

 

“I’m sure you could,” Dean breathed out. “Not tonight, though.”

 

“Why not?” Castiel whined.

 

“I should like you to remember me,” Dean said softly.

 

Castiel shook his head. “I couldn’t forget you, Dean.”

 

Dean’s thumb remained pressed against Castiel’s lip. He pushed down on it, dipping his thumb into Castiel’s mouth an inch, but then he pulled away completely. Castiel felt the lack of Dean’s touch like it was a personal offense. He wanted to whine again.

 

“You’re drunk, Cas. I might look it, but I’m not that kind of man,” Dean insisted.

 

Castiel wanted to cry. Were he sober, he would admire Dean’s approach - but he wasn’t sober. He felt disappointed - all night he thought this would end in something amazing, something that involved them being together, and he knew he wasn’t being delusional. Dean kept hinting at it as well, Castiel was certain it wasn’t just his mind misinterpreting everything. But saying goodbye at the gate wasn’t amazing. It was nothing, nothing as always.

 

“But I leave tomorrow,” Castiel whispered and he looked down again. He wasn’t trying to be coy this time - he just didn’t want Dean to see his face. Castiel could feel it growing sad and teary-eyed.

 

Dean sighed. “I know.”

 

Castiel looked back up, biting the inside of his cheek. “Kiss me, at least.”

 

“Cas…”

 

“I could beg, but I’d rather not.”

 

Dean looked around. The street was empty, excluding a pair of gentlemen walking on the far end of it, facing the other way.

 

Dean leaned in, catching the lapel of Castiel’s topcoat in his gloved hand. Castiel held his breath when Dean’s mouth pressed lightly against his. Dean’s lips were soft and warm in the cold air, but they vanished before Castiel could get a taste. His eyes had already fluttered close and he didn’t understand why it ended so fast.

 

“Kiss me proper,” Castiel demanded and he pressed himself against Dean’s chest.

 

Castiel chased Dean’s lips until he captured them. He exhaled, feeling excitement starting to grow in the pit of his stomach. He leaned against Dean with all his weight and Dean caught him, the cane rattling against the iron gate’s bars as he let it go.

 

Castiel closed his eyes again. His fingers ran down the velvet lapels of Dean’s coat. He wished he could unbutton it and slide his hands inside. Grab Dean’s hips and pull at him, bring him closer, rock them together.

 

He whined into the kiss. He felt Dean’s tongue at his lips and he parted them. His knees felt weak, as if made out of jelly. He hugged Dean closer but it was sub-conscious - he couldn’t focus on anything for the life of him. The real world had stopped existing quite a few moments ago, but the kiss almost felt like too much. Castiel didn’t know what to do with it - kissing Dean was more of an emotion than a touch. All he could think about was that _it absolutely cannot stop_ because if it should, Castiel wouldn’t survive for sure.

 

And then it stopped and Castiel survived, and this survival hurt.

 

He’d always dreamed of finding this person - this person he would want everything with - and now he had him and he had to let him go.

 

Where he’d only tasted whiskey on his tongue up until now, he felt the ghost of Dean’s tongue. He felt empty when reality forced him to open his eyes and stand up on his own two feet.

 

“I guessed right,” Dean breathed, “You’re rather good at it.”

 

Castiel looked at him with confusion.

 

“I’m telling you that you’re a good kisser, Cas,” he laughed. “See, this is why I don’t want anything to happen tonight. I hope you understand.” Castiel nodded hesitantly. “Now go home.”

 

“I don’t want to,” said Castiel like a stubborn child.

 

“I know that, darling,” Dean sighed. “But you should.”

 

Neither of them managed to bring themselves to say goodbye. Dean watched as Castiel got behind the gate. They exchanged a smile and Castiel told himself he wouldn’t, couldn’t forget those green eyes as long as he lived. His heart sank when Dean nodded and grabbing his cane, started to leave.

 

“ _Leviathan,_ ” Castiel called. Dean turned back with a frown. “My ship. It leaves at nine in the morning. Sharp.” Which, of course, meant _come._

 

Dean smiled. “Goodnight, Castiel.” Which, of course, meant _I don’t know if that is appropriate._

 

Castiel listened to the tap of the cane as Dean walked away. His fingers curled around the iron bars. It felt as if he’d been imprisoned.

 

After a few minutes, he dragged his feet inside. He didn’t quite manage a change of clothes - after shrugging off his coat, gloves and shoes, he dropped onto his bed and fell asleep within seconds, sinking into blissfully dreamless slumber.

  


**xxx**

  


Were it any other day, Naomi Milton would have stopped talking to her son for at least a week. Were it any other day, Castiel would have minded at least a little bit.

 

This way, though, he was almost sorry he didn’t oversleep at _least_ by a few more minutes. He would have missed the _Leviathan_ for sure.

 

He’d been so eager to leave New York just twenty-four hours ago. Now he wasn’t so sure. Dean Winchester’s face floated in front of him every time he so much as blinked and the idea of leaving it all behind was almost physically painful.

 

Castiel didn’t know whether he would see Dean again. His only chance was at the harbor, and that was up to Dean, not up to Castiel. Had he been staying in New York, he would have already begun planning an intricate bar crawl just to stumble upon Mr. Winchester again.

 

“Hurry!” his mother hissed like an angered snake.

 

Castiel quickly jumped into the carriage and, tuning out his mother’s complaints about his behavior, he let himself be carried towards the ship.

 

He knew he should be excited. He was about to slip from present to _the future_ , the one he’d dreamed of for himself. He shouldn’t have been so damned hung up on one evening that started on Broadway out of all places.

 

Castiel found that he really didn’t remember all of it, but he felt he remembered the crucial things: the way Dean had played with Castiel’s signet ring (similar to how he was playing with it now), laughing as they’d run out of the brothel, the kiss. The _kiss_. Castiel knew that kiss would keep him up for many nights to come.

 

The knot in Castiel’s stomach was caused by travel-anxiety only partially. Most of the anxiety came from anticipation - he so wished he would spot Dean before he would have to board the _Leviathan_. He so wished they could see each other again. He had no idea if anything would come of it, but it would still be better than not seeing the man again at all.

 

When they arrived at the harbor and exited the carriage, Castiel realized it was more of a beehive than a port of any kind.

 

People darted one way and another, rushing past and carrying boxes with their belongings.

 

Castiel saw lovers saying goodbye, saw the working class men boarding the ship in such good humor, saw mothers cry as they kissed their children or husbands goodbye. He doubted Naomi would so much as shed a single tear. She was probably glad to be getting rid of him, making him his sister’s burden instead.

 

Naomi joined him in the line that went up to the boarding bridge. The ocean liner looked imposing up-close, much more like the monster it was named for than the serenely-floating boat he watched the day before.

 

“Fix your hair,” she commanded. She was wearing a tight dress that closed around her neck, with sleeves that puffed up at the shoulders. They were pointy as needles and suited both her slim body _and_ her sharp voice. “Please do not embarrass me. It’s bad enough you simply refuse to wear a hat like a proper gentleman.”

 

Castiel rolled his eyes but smoothed his hair out with his right hand. He shuffled from foot to foot expectantly.

 

“Would you stop? You look like a child, fidgeting like that. Why can’t you stand still?”

 

Taking a deep breath, Castiel was just about to open his mouth and finally say something, when a voice called their names.

 

“Mrs. Milton, Castiel!”

 

Castiel looked around for the face to match the familiar British accent and voice. Balthazar was making his way through the crowd towards them, a giant smile on his face. The only thing giving away the happenings of the previous night were the bags under his eyes. He looked perfect otherwise, presentable. Not like Castiel, according to Naomi.

 

That’s why Balthazar had been a secret kind of rebellion – Castiel saw him in the night behaving badly, but the man managed to present himself as perfect during the day and in front of Castiel’s mother.

 

“I hope you’re having the loveliest of mornings, Mrs. Milton,” Balthazar said, bowing to her.

 

She dismissed the gesture, but smiled. “Oh, I’m surprised I haven’t had a heart attack yet.”

 

“Castiel,” Balthazar turned to him, “are you giving your darling mother trouble again?”

 

“Leave him be, Balthazar,” Naomi said with affection. She’d always preferred Balthazar for reasons unknown, and she adored playing the merciful mother in front of him.

 

Balthazar and his mother slipped into an easy conversation and Castiel was finally free to look around again. He wasn’t listening at all. The only thing he cared about was spotting a pair of gorgeous green eyes.

 

It was only a few minutes until nine and Castiel was dangerously close to the boarding line when he heard, “Cas!” Half a whisper, half a shout.

 

Castiel swirled around as if someone pulled on a string. He’d been right - he caught a glimpse of the green eyes within a second.

 

“I’ll be right back,” he informed his mother and Balthazar and before they could stop him, he left the line and rushed towards Dean.

 

He was standing on the side and further back. Castiel shoved someone in his hurry and murmured a quick apology, trying to get there as soon as possible. He knew they only had a few moments before he would have to go back.

 

“You’re here,” Castiel said in disbelief.

 

Dean bit his lip sheepishly as if trying to hold back a smile. “And you remember me.”

 

Castiel grinned. “I did tell you I would.”

 

“Now I know you’re not a liar.” Their hands met in secret. They were standing close together and Dean’s fingers brushed his. Castiel caught them and held on. He wished he could be gentler, but he squeezed instead.

 

“Castiel!” yelled Balthazar somewhere behind him. They were looking for him in the crowd. His only victory was that his mother wouldn’t dare leave the line. Balthazar soon would, though.

 

“I have to go,” Castiel murmured.

 

“And should I tell you to stay?” Dean inquired. Castiel’s face scrunched up in hurt. He’d still have to go. “Don’t worry. I’m really here to give you this.” He brought Castiel’s hand up and pressed a piece of paper into it. “It’s my address.”

 

“I do wish I could stay -”

 

Dean squeezed his wrist. “Write to me,” he said. The line by Castiel’s side kept moving forward, thinning. He’d have to board soon. “Promise?”

 

_I don’t want to go I don’t want to go I don’t want to go._

 

“I promise.”

 

“Describe the ocean view from the ship for me,” Dean said with a smirk. If he felt a sadness similar to Castiel’s, he was much better at hiding it behind a mask. Their hands brushed one last time and then Dean turned to walk away. Castiel couldn’t even hear the sound of the cane in the midst of all this. His heart ached.

 

He shoved the address into his pocket and rushed back to his mother and Balthazar. He was trying to focus on holding back the urge to scream.

 

Being so late, Naomi didn’t even have the time to give him an earful about it.

 

“Here’s your ticket,” she was saying, pressing it into Castiel’s free hand. She leaned in and quickly pecked him on both cheeks. “Be good. And write.”

 

Castiel squeezed the paper with Dean’s address. “I will.”


	2. PART II

**PART II:**

 

**THE WICKED ARE WICKED, NO DOUBT**

 

**_(_ ** _ William Makepeace Thackeray / Vanity Fair) _

  
  
  


Castiel was only half-shocked when Balthazar stepped on the boarding bridge alongside him, instead of staying behind on the dock.

 

“Do I want to know?” Castiel asked as they moved towards the entrance.

 

Balthazar snickered and shrugged. “I simply won the ticket in a fair game of cards last night,” he explained nonchalantly. “It’s second-class, though, I’m afraid, so I won’t be able to join you that often.”

 

“How truly awful for you.”

 

“Oh, no. Awful for you,” Balthazar argued. “I hear the alcohol is far better where there aren’t any noblemen scrunching up their expensive noses at strong whiskey.”

 

“Aren’t  _ you _ a noble man?” Castiel inquired idly. He was still squeezing the paper with Dean’s address in one hand and his ticket in the other. They were nearing the boarding spot and Castiel’s heart was just about to jump out of his chest for far more reasons than he even cared to consider.

 

“I am a diplomat,” Balthazar said. “Which means I am who I am, whenever I need to be.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“Exactly.” Balthazar opened the lapels of his coat and whipped out his ticket. Castiel didn’t quite understand how, but Balthazar did everything with such grace that even his terrible drinking habits and dirty behavior looked and felt just right. People simply overlooked it and enjoyed his presence - he did radiate confidence and calm, after all.

 

And Castiel found that he was rather glad that Balthazar had robbed some poor man of his chance at a new life. Up until he was forced to face his leaving, he actually never realized there was more to New York than just the name. The ties he had weren’t as easy to cut as he’d always thought.

 

He would never say so, of course, but he thought it - thank God Balthazar would be there with him as he crossed the ocean to start anew. It was like carrying a piece of the city with him in his pocket.

 

As they boarded the  _ Leviathan _ , finally, and parted ways, Castiel was led to his stupidly expensive first-class cabin. On the way, he was told where the dining room was, where the smoking room was and which way to go to get to the promenade deck. He was also advised to rent a deck chair if he didn’t want to miss the view. That was about the only thing he actually paid attention to because it reminded him of his promise to Dean.

 

Knowing that his mother had likely left the second Castiel set foot on the ship, he decided against fighting for a spot on the deck to watch New York and the Statue of Liberty’s uneven, unfinished silhouette shrank from view.

 

Instead, he sat down on his bed and tried to ignore the merriment outside his cabin.

 

It smelled like freshly polished wood in there, a smell he wasn’t particularly fond of. Sighing, Castiel took out the paper with the address and then shrugged off his coat.

 

Castiel looked at Dean’s words. His letters danced across the paper in a haphazard manner, as if put together in a great rush. Without thinking, Castiel brought the paper to his face and tried to breathe in some kind of scent, but there was none. It made Castiel realize that he’d never caught the smell of Dean’s cologne, or he’d failed to remember it - either way, it was very disappointing.

 

“Pathetic,” Castiel commented, both at the missing scent and his own behavior.

 

As he was sitting on the bed, he leaned back and laid down, arms spread out.

 

This was it, then. The end of his life and the start of it.

 

It felt a little empty and yet it filled him to the very brim.

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


It was on his third day on the ship that Castiel listened to the advice he’d been given and rented a deck chair.

 

He’d walked the length of the promenade deck so many times already it grated on him. The root of his problem was his restlessness. He wasn’t sure of what he’d left behind, and he wasn’t sure of what awaited him.

 

Castiel kept Dean’s address with him at all times - breakfast or dinner, a walk with Balthazar or a moment alone. It became a kind of security blanket as he tried to get accustomed to the characteristic sounds and smells of the  _ Leviathan _ . In the end, he got used to the hum of the engines and the odd notion of movement he didn’t quite feel but definitely saw every time he looked at the ocean spreading and splitting around them.

 

It wasn’t until that third day when he sat down in his deck chair for the first time that he actually considered  _ writing _ . He composed a quick letter to his mother, informing her of his journey thus far. It was time to admit he’d been avoiding composing a letter to Dean.

 

He didn’t know how or what to write. That was peculiar, given that correspondence was usually one of his stronger suits. He’d preferred writing to talking up until now.

 

How should he start?  _ Dear Dean _ was far too familiar, even  _ Dear Friend _ made Castiel’s heart beat a little too hard. On the other hand, he couldn’t imagine greeting Dean with  _ Honored Sir, _ or simply  _ Sir. _ Castiel found himself to be caught right in between.

 

Frustrated, he looked around. He entertained the thought of sketching, but he was surrounded by first class gentlemen and families who all seemed to be doing nothing, as if the  _ Leviathan _ were a liminal space and everyone was stuck in the same empty place all the way until Liverpool. Castiel felt more like the observed rather than the observer. He hated that he’d been foolish enough to listen to a stranger’s advice and sit here, as if that could be of any help.

 

He could feel anxiety blossoming in his chest.

 

He knew of one cure to it, and that was Balthazar.

 

Despite both of them having access to the cabins below the poop deck, they hadn’t been spending a lot of time together; while Castiel could go anywhere he liked with his first class ticket, Balthazar needed an invitation to the first class areas. Needless to say, he never showed any particular interest in it. He could be at home anywhere and he’d likely made friends of every second class passenger the day they embarked on their journey to Liverpool.

 

It was nearing dinnertime when Castiel went out in search of Balthazar. He went to the second class dining room, which was crowded and bustling with people. He was just beginning to despair that he would never find Balthazar when there was a tap on his shoulder.

 

“Good afternoon to you, Sir,” said Balthazar with an over-exaggerated accent.

 

Castiel felt relief at the sound of a familiar voice. “Balthazar.”

 

“How come you’re promenading your first-class face around here?”

 

“Oh, shush,” Castiel murmured. “I thought I’d dine with you.”

 

Balthazar seemed to notice that Castiel’s spirits weren’t very high; in fact, the opposite was true, and he managed to hold back from any further remarks. He took Castiel with him and although Balthazar spent his dinner talking to “a few lads from Yorkshire,” Castiel was almost happy to be in his presence. It was a comfort.

 

“Come with me to our smoking room,” Castiel suggested once they finished dining. He knew that the appeal of the first-class smoking room would be too big to refuse, and he was correct.

 

Castiel sketched and drank while Balthazar gambled with other first-class passengers and probably lost money he didn’t have in the first place.

 

This was exactly the piece of New York Cas had hoped to carry with him and he was glad for it.

 

After he finished his rough sketch of Balthazar (and his second glass of gin), he even got up and joined Balthazar by the table.

 

“I don’t want to go to bed yet, mother,” Balthazar joked when he noticed Castiel by his side. “Don’t make me.”

 

Castiel smiled and let it slip. He sat there for a few games and watched Balthazar closely, noticing which cards he’d literally pulled out of his sleeve; he didn’t comment on that, either.

 

A certain sense of peace came over him, suddenly. It was as if he hadn’t been able to find a place for himself and everything felt new and uncertain after leaving, but seeking out Balthazar’s company helped him again. That’s perhaps why they were friends after all: not just Castiel’s rebellion or his needed confidence boost, but the fact that Balthazar actually felt like home. There was a possibility he felt the same about Castiel - he wanted to believe it, anyway.

 

That night, somehow, Castiel laughed when everyone else laughed and he went to sleep in an unusually good mood.

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


When Castiel awoke the following morning, he lounged in his bed a few moments longer than necessary. His good mood hadn’t abandoned him overnight and he marvelled in it.

 

His first steps didn’t lead to the dining room for breakfast despite his empty stomach. He crossed his room and sat down by his table, grabbing a piece of paper from the stack the ship had provided. He started writing before his fingers could shake off the eagerness and his mind could start thinking more soberly.

  
  


_ October 7th, 1884 _

_ on board the Leviathan _

 

_ Dear Friend, _

 

_ I’m hopeful you’ll find my addressing you in such a friendly manner appropriate, and not the opposite. I should, however, understand it, if you were opposed to it indeed. Our acquaintance was but brief and there wasn’t enough time to share more of our lives. _

 

_ One has got to manage one’s time on a ship like this, and I want to use mine to write to you and tell you about my life, seeing as I hope to address you as a friend in the future. _

 

_You already know I left New York City the morning of October 3rd_ _and that I am to live with my sister in England. She and her husband live on the outskirts of London, where I am to attend art lectures at the Royal Academy of Arts. I sincerely doubt the sketch you kept shows it, but I’ve chosen to dedicate my time to painting many years ago. I feel I have to learn more before I am any good and my family was kind enough to support my decision, for which I am grateful._

 

_ As for my journey, the weather has been as good as we’d all prayed it would be and we should reach Liverpool in four days. I have had no struggles with travelling across the ocean, thankfully, and neither has my companion, Balthazar. _

 

_ I shan’t bore you with any more details. I’m not that good a writer. I hope this letter finds you in good health. _

 

_ Of course, I haven’t forgotten your request that I describe the ocean for you. As stated above, I am no good with words, therefore I’m enclosing a drawing. It’s what I see when I sit on the promenade deck. I hope it’s everything you’d wished for. _

 

_ Respectfully, _

_ Castiel Milton _

  
  


Castiel folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope before he could change his mind. Finishing the letter felt like something heavy finally fell off his shoulders. He was confident in his decision not to reread what he wrote - he was certain he would change his mind if he did - and he placed the envelope in the breast pocket of his coat carefully.

 

After a rather quick breakfast, Castiel walked the promenade deck and rented a deck chair once more.

 

This time with confidence, he turned to a clean page in his sketchbook and started outlining the view.

 

He tried to capture the waves and the deep yet light way they seemed to dance - the way the color seemed to fade so seamlessly over the horizon, as if flooding the sky; or the sky bleeding into the water. He tried to be as true in his drawing as he could be, and he was relatively happy with the outcome.

 

The railing of the promenade deck framed it and opened into the ocean like a window. The ripples scattered across the water and captured the wind that played with it.

 

It wasn’t  _ completely _ true to what Castiel saw, though.

 

Somehow he kept imagining Dean leaning against the railing much like he had at the bar, the wind blowing through his carefully styled hair, the color of the ocean reflecting in his eyes. He couldn’t draw that, of course - not to mail to Dean, at least - so he had to make peace with the imperfect.

 

_ Maybe imperfect is better than utterly truthful _ , he decided, but he doubted it very much.

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


It felt strange to walk on land again, and strange to be left alone - Castiel departed from Liverpool after one night, while Balthazar had decided to stay there for a while before making his way down south to London. Aside from the post office and the inn he spent the night at, Castiel hadn’t seen much of Liverpool. It seemed to be a metropolis worth mentioning, but his mind was too set on the letter he’d just mailed and his travels to London to take any true enjoyment from it.

  
  
  


The train journey seemed tedious and Castiel felt tired to his very bones. Unable to focus on reading, sketching or conversing with the lady sitting next to him (who couldn’t seem to notice Castiel didn’t care much about her talk of her new governess post), he settled on closing his eyes and daydreaming.

 

Dean’s face floated before him as he did so, but he told himself to move on to something else. It was foolish to dream of one man - a man he barely knew at that.

 

He had to tell himself, repeatedly, that Dean and he could be friends at the very best. He would do better not to expect anything more of it.

 

Castiel couldn’t forget the kiss, of course, and it played over and over again in his head whenever he allowed it, but a kiss is just a kiss, isn’t it? He couldn’t forget the amount of alcohol they’d had leading up to it, either.

 

The more distant America grew, the more Castiel doubted that any kind of true feeling could be reciprocated. Even more so, he tried to convince himself there was no true feeling on his side, either - it was only attraction and lust, and if he was to go on and live in London, it was in his best interest to believe that. Dean Winchester was a stranger, after all, wasn’t he? And making a friend out of him was all Castiel could really hope for.

 

He opted to dream of London instead, of the Royal Academy, of the life spreading out before him, full of lectures on anatomy and live models. A life free of Naomi Milton.

 

Despite being occupied by such thoughts, Castiel found the journey to London tiresome and uncomfortable. He was glad to get off the packed train, even though it meant entering a crowd of people buzzing around like bees.

 

Anna was quicker to notice him, in spite of her very noticeable flaming red hair. In Castiel’s defense, it wasn’t easy to spot her - she was wearing a deep-green dress with buttons cascading from her neck to her waist, and her signature hair was tucked beneath a flat-crowned sailor hat, trimmed with chiffon and decorated with fresh daisies.

 

Her cheeks reddened with cheer once Castiel approached her. He clasped her shoulders and she his as they leaned in and pecked each other on the cheeks.

 

“It has been  _ so _ long, Castiel!” she exclaimed. Her smile was genuine and touching.

 

“Far too long,” Castiel agreed.

 

He took Anna in slowly - she had grown so. A fully realized woman stood before him; married, but still happy. Not many achieved such a thing in these times. Castiel himself felt no desire to marry, but the sight of his sister so red-cheeked and giddy made him feel hopeful still.

 

“Oh, you must be exhausted,” Anna said. They still stood in a half-embrace. As she moved her arms from his shoulders to grasp his hands, she inspected him. She was taking him in, too, Castiel could tell - he was the younger brother, but he had certainly grown as much as she had. 

 

“You had better take good care of me, then,” Castiel joked. He caught her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. “It’s so very good to see you.”

 

She nodded. “Come now. I’ve a carriage waiting for us.”

 

He followed through the crowd and allowed himself to be led out of it. Anna seemed confident and independent - her husband was nowhere to be seen, yet she easily commanded at least two people on their way to the carriage to get Castiel’s belongings and help them along. He knew her as stubborn (as their mother used to say) and strong-willed (which he himself always thought of her), but this was the first time he saw her in complete control of herself. He knew right away that she had always been so much more than what those two easy words could ever hope to encompass.

 

His relief at getting out of Naomi’s reach translated easily into genuine gratitude at getting in Anna’s. He had loved her dearly from childhood and she was a soulmate he’d lost sight of for a few years. Of course he was happy to be back with her.

 

Castiel didn’t pay much attention to his surroundings on the way to his new home. He thought London noisy and dirty, which is a given considering he was looking down on it, but the cushions of their carriage were soft enough to sleep on. He almost dozed off a couple of times, only shaken awake by the rare bump in the road or a too-loud shout from outside. He was in no state to be making any true judgments, he realized.

 

It was easy to tell that Anna and her husband were faring well - the carriage, as well as their house, spoke for it plenty.

 

Castiel’s new home didn’t look nearly as expensive as the Milton mansion in New York, but it still stood high in the London outskirts. Unsurprisingly for the upper class, everything was kept clean, unlike in the city, and their property seemed to take up the space a few acres around the house itself. He could see to their nearest neighbor, but he probably wouldn’t able to wish them a good day from his room’s window.

 

“I ought to give you a tour of the place once you’re rested,” Anna was saying, chirping happily like a bird.

 

“Is it very rude of me that I want to sleep so, so badly?”

 

“Oh, not at all, darling,” Anna reassured him. He noticed a slight accent creeping into her voice that hadn’t been there before. “I understand. I’ll have dinner taken to your room, if you so wish.”

 

“That would be wonderful. Thank you so much.”

 

Anna led him inside the house. She didn’t stop to show off the entrance hall - she continued towards the impressive staircase and Castiel followed. He  _ was _ excited to get a tour, but the more they walked and talked, the more he just wanted to rest his head.

 

“Was your journey so horrid?” she asked.

 

“No, not at all,” said Castiel quickly. “It seems like it took years, though. I would be thankful for an eternity box at this point. Where’s the nearest graveyard?”

 

“As far as you’ve still got your wits about you...” she commented.

 

They ascended the stairs and she turned left. “Garth can’t wait to spend more time with you. Sometimes I think he fell in love with you as much as he did with me.”

 

Castiel laughed. “I  _ am _ handsome.”

 

“ _ And _ I have clearly always been tougher than you,” Anna added. She smirked at him over her shoulder and gave him a playful wink.

 

To be fair, Castiel loved Garth just as much - he was a decent fellow, for a police man, he showed interest in Castiel’s art (whether he was just trying to get on his good side was yet to be decided)  _ and _ he made Anna happy. A decent fellow indeed, as far as Castiel was concerned.

 

“Right, here we are.” Anna stood in front of a closed door. She nodded towards it. “Go ahead, it’s yours.”

 

Castiel was more than satisfied when he opened the door. The room was, of course, not as big as the one he had in New York - even his new bed looked smaller - but on the other hand, it wasn’t as small as his cabin on the _Leviathan._ Besides, the wooden furniture lining the walls, in combination with the cream-white wallpaper with a deep-blue pattern, made the space look homely right away.

 

“Oh, this is perfect,” Castiel said truthfully. He walked in, the carpet silencing his steps. He breathed in.

 

“Of course, you’re free to go anywhere in the house,” Anna was saying, her hand on the doorknob. “This is fully your home now.”

 

“Even the kitchen?”

 

“Especially the kitchen.”

 

Castiel laughed and walked back to Anna. He fondly remembered sneaking food from their kitchen as children  - even the memory of Naomi chastising them in her harsh, angry voice when they refused to eat dinner later made him happy. He kissed her cheek again. “Thank you so much, my love.”

 

She looked at him as if he was the older one. It must have been the stubble on Castiel’s face - and the fact that even though she’d grown, she hadn’t aged a day. He had.

 

“All for my little brother,” she said with a smile. “Get some rest, now.”

 

She closed the door as she left the room and Castiel found himself alone.

 

He let himself fall into the clean white sheets. He felt a tingle of happiness deep in his chest and he cradled it like a child, thinking of it and savoring it for as long as he could before he fell asleep.

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


Castiel’s life quickly slipped into a routine of sorts. At breakfast, he talked with Garth and Anna, then left for lectures at the Academy and tried to find a place for himself.

 

That last bit sounded easier than it actually was. There seemed to be a certain tension between himself and the other gentlemen attending the Academy, or even the random strangers he happened to meet during his days and evenings. Americans looked down on the British and vice versa. With good reason, perhaps, but it made Castiel’s life harder than he’d wished. He, himself, could not care less about the general Anglo-American relations and he secretly thought that others should take note.

 

Those who attended the same lectures as he seemed to have grouped together long before Castiel arrived in London and they weren’t interested in taking him in.

 

Castiel refused to live the life of a hermit any longer, though. Staying true to his decision to live in the present, he tried his hardest to spend as much time outside of the house as he possibly could.

 

He rarely sketched - his lectures and assignments were keeping him busy, and he wanted that to be his focus - but he was still a rather good observer. Whereas he tended to ignore New York City in its complexities, he walked around London frequently.

  
He walked through the streets where the rich lived, and for possibly the first time in his life, he walked through those where the poor lived asl well. 

 

As he ventured into East End and saw poverty in the glint of day, it shook him, no doubt. He felt ashamed of himself and his wealth when he saw the slums, but it would be short-sighted to see only that and to feel only pity. He saw glimpses of contentment there, too - a sort of irony. To hear laughter amidst filth and illness and who knows what else, baffled him. From his position of power, he struggled to understand it., but he knew he ought to try his best.

 

And then he realized it probably wasn’t much different from New York’s Five Points and he felt ashamed even more. Not for looking down on these people; for not having looked at them at all for so long.

 

He spoke of the experience that evening during dinner. He usually ate out, but he was happy to talk and eat surrounded by familiar faces and furniture for a change.

 

“Mrs. Johnson does quite a lot of charity work in that part of town,” Anna said thoughtfully after Castiel shared what he’d seen earlier that day. She turned to Garth. “Hannah. We should invite her for dinner some time.”

 

Castiel’s interest perked up. “Charity work?”

 

“Of course, she would be able to tell you more than I ever could, but as far as I know, she’s helped build a little school for them and teaches there occasionally, whenever her schedule allows. Her husband is a man of medicine and they’ve done a great deal to bring nurses to East End.”

 

“It doesn’t solve everything, of course,” Garth said in between bites. It seemed as if they’d talked about this before. “But I appreciate that we’re not twiddling our thumbs anymore, at least.”

 

“ _ At last _ ,” Anna corrected him.

 

The couple slipped into a conversation of London’s slums and immigrants, an issue that seemed to grow more pressing by the day. They listened to each other and argued at times - what to do about the poverty, how to help, how to help prevent it - and Castiel listened to them.

 

He loved it so - to be there and be able to listen, and with such ease. Had he been back in New York; had he told his mother his feet carried him to the slums of the city, she surely would have lost her mind. Surely she wouldn’t have suggested he help with charity. She would have commanded him to never set foot there again. To hear Anna talk with her husband on these matters like a partner, an equal, and eager to invite Castiel in - it was freeing.

 

So Castiel felt content and hopeful, almost happy, once he grew accustomed to living in London. There were, of course, the accent, the people he missed (he’d never thought he could miss Balthazar so), the people at the Academy who looked down on him, the poverty. But there was love and there was hope and there was life, and there was work to be done.

 

He wasn’t quite satisfied, though, with the idea of teaching the East End children the art of painting or sculpting or anything of the sort, though. It was one of his daydreams, but it wasn’t enough. There was a shadow over it constantly and he couldn’t find a way to shine a light through it. So he would at least forget about it, not think about it for a while.

 

That missing something, that shadow - that was, of course, the letter he’d sent to Dean Winchester the second he set foot in Liverpool, and the reply from Dean Winchester that never arrived.

 

Castiel was just about to lose hope for good when he saw a brown-yellow envelope sitting in front of his breakfast.

 

Conversing with Garth was absolute Hell on Earth that morning. Castiel kept staring at the  _ D. Winchester _ neatly written in the top left corner of the envelope, mostly humming in response to whatever Garth was saying. Something about an old banker dying of a heart attack in a brothel. It could just as well have been chicks and ducks to Castiel.

 

His lectures started early, around ten, and Castiel had to leave the house shortly after breakfast. He carried the letter in his inside pocket as he left the house and took the carriage into town, but in the end, he was too eager. He ordered the carriage be stopped near Regent’s Park and he hopped out onto his anxious feet.

 

The wide path of the park stretched in front of him. Ladies frequented it the most during these hours, excluding the men accompanying them or riding by on horses if they were courting them or trying to show off. Some of them were walking up to the Zoo or the botanical gardens, but Castiel had no interest in either of those.

 

He stopped by a large tree and leaned against its trunk.

 

_ Oh, calm down, just calm down! _ , he told himself over and over again, trying to stop his heart from bursting through his ribcage.

 

His fingers trembled a little as he ripped the envelope open and pulled out a piece of paper, neatly folded in three.

 

His heart sank, for he thought it was a short note on not pursuing their friendship any further. He then noticed the precise penmanship, however: each letter small, each word packed close to the next one. It definitely wasn’t a short note at all.

 

Castiel smiled, smoothing the paper out in front of him. Not being able to withhold any longer, he started to read and Regent’s Park stopped existing.

  
  


_ October 22nd, 1884 _

_ Riverside Drive, New York City _

 

_ Dearest Friend, _

  
  


\- and he called him Dearest!

  
  


_ I have to apologize for taking a longer time to reply. As I’m sure you know, New York never quite stops being New York and one gets easily swept up by it. _

 

_ I was very happy indeed to receive your letter. I wasn’t sure you would take me up on my request, but I’m still thrilled you chose to do so. I hope the rest of your journey went well and London greeted you pompously, as it should have. We hear the weather is mighty unreliable in that part of the world, and I sure hope you won’t be caught in a storm. _

 

_ Thank you so much for the enclosed drawing. I should never comprehend how you do it, capturing color with your little piece of charcoal just so. Yet, I felt I was there on the deck with you when I looked at it. Simply to be sure I’m picturing it perfectly - can you please confirm that the color of the ocean could be likened to the color of your eyes? _

 

_ Should you be interested in some news from this marvelous city of ours - ah, well, of mine as of now, ever since your departure - there was an article aptly titled “He Could Not Digest Pins” on October 20th. This poor Philadelphian simply kept swallowing pins while putting some old fellow’s furniture together and it never even occurred to him it could be dangerous! Pray tell, are Londoners much saner than us, Americans? I bet they are. _

 

_ I shall be looking forward to your reply, whatever it is you choose to tell me of your new life. _

 

_ Affectionately, _

_ Dean Winchester _

  
  


Castiel stared at the last words,  _ affectionately _ burning into his mind, as his fingers idly traced the outlines of the sentences.

 

All the letters curved just so. It couldn’t be compared to the rushed address note Dean had given him previously. These letters, words, sentences were written with care and thought. Castiel liked them all the more - especially those parts that hinted at something more, something...  _ something. _ That something Castel couldn’t put his finger on and had been meaning to dismiss. He couldn’t do that now that Dean compared his eyes to the ocean.

 

For the first time, Castiel found his mind wandering during lectures.

 

Instead of taking notes on the anatomy of a horse (when would he ever need that, anyway!), he started composing his letter in reply.

 

For the first time, also, Castiel skipped his afternoon walk and hurried home, eager and anxious at the same time.

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


_ November 2nd, 1884 _

_ Little Miracle _

 

_ Dear Mr. Winchester! _

 

_ I hope you don’t use flattery as a means to get an invitation to England. I couldn’t possibly invite you or take you on as a guest. Firstly, Little Miracle belongs to my sister and her husband. Secondly, the English are in no way prepared to handle a man of such charm. You would single-handedly ruin us all with your witty turns of speech, and where should that leave us? _

 

_ Your letter got to me on a very beautiful day. You should have seen Regents Park! I read your letter in the shadow of a tall tree. Every color looked so vibrant and full. It was perhaps one of the last sunny days of this year, but it was a beautiful one. You are correct in assuming the weather is unreliable, however. Then again, what in life isn’t? _

 

_ Should the specific color of the ocean haunt you, I have been told that it’s comparable to my eyes indeed. My sister informed me, however, that I shouldn’t be too proud of it, as sea-sickness catches more than half the travellers unawares and tortures them so. I don’t know what would happen, should you not be careful. _

 

_ I could fill pages upon pages trying to describe this new life of mine, but I do not wish to bore you. _

 

_I try to avoid newspapers, I can tell you that much. Usually, I buy last confessions - they are entertaining albeit a little morbid fabricated stories, supposedly_ _last words of murderers that are to be sent to death for their crimes. I hope you won’t judge this little habit of mine._

 

_ Do write more about New York City. About yourself, if you wish. I’m eagerly anticipating every word. _

 

_ Faithfully, _

_ Castiel Milton _

  
  
  
  
  


_ November 11th, 1884 _

_ Riverside Drive, New York City _

 

_ Dearest Friend! _

 

_ I’m glad for every opportunity to write to you. _

 

_ I’m certainly happy you think me charming, but should we compare wit, you would have to be my rival, not a friend. I like to win and I’m not so sure I could outwit you, in which case I couldn’t  _ _ possibly _ _ call you a friend. _

 

_ I’d like to advise you on something - no need to worry about me and sea-sickness. I’m simply chuffed I was right in comparing your eyes to the never-ending ocean-blue. Don’t listen to your sister; you should definitely be proud. _

 

_ I completely understand your avoiding the newspapers, so I won’t burden you with any more random articles. However, I should like to hear more about these last confessions you mentioned! They sound fascinating. _

 

_ As for New York, it is what it is. You would still recognize every street and every establishment - including brothels, after our night together. _

 

_ You could never bore me with stories and descriptions of your life. I would be more than honored to know more about you. _

 

_ I suppose that isn’t a very fair request coming from someone like me. I realize I have been more than hesitant to share too much information of my person, but I’m hoping to redeem that. _

 

_ As you know, I have a brother, Sam. He’s younger than I am and he is all I’ve left in the world. Our mother passed when we were but children and our father is rather absent. He is alive and well, worry not - he left us many years ago, however, in search of who knows what. I understand his inability to stay in one place. Our mother was spectacular. To call her a mere human being would be an insult to her ethereal charm. Sam doesn’t remember her but I do, and with love. Our father took care of us the best he could. You may think I’m trying to defend him, and you may even be correct in that assumption, but I’ve had to make my peace with the situation and with him and I’ve forgiven him. _

 

_ Well! This is why I don’t talk of myself or my family all that often. It turns into a sad story rather quickly. I’m grateful to say it doesn’t reflect the way my brother and I have been trying to live our lives. _

 

_ I shall hope you don’t think any less of me or my family after reading these lines. _

 

_ I hope nothing but the best for you and your family. _

 

_ With regards, _

_ Dean Winchester _

  
  
  
  
  


_ November 20th, 1884 _

_ Little Miracle _

 

_ Dearest Friend, _

 

_ Your latest letter made me swell up with pride. I’m honored that you should consider me trustworthy enough to share your personal life with me. I am richer for knowing more about you and your family, and I would never dare think any less of you for any of it. _

 

_My family,_ _likewise, far from perfect. I love my sister dearly, but she is the only family member I’m able to say as much about. I have never loved my mother the way we are supposed to as children, and I’m confident in saying that neither has she loved me the way mothers should. It is one of the reasons I decided to leave New York. Perhaps if I’d met you sooner, I might have had more reason to stay._

 

_ My sister, Anna, is a free spirit herself. She and I are similar in this way, and it couldn’t have brought us closer together - it couldn’t have dragged us any further from our mother, either. _

 

_ I have been content here in London, but I must speak frankly. _

 

_ In New York, I was very ignorant of all the issues that ran through our society - sometimes willfully so. I am much more aware of them here, and it is difficult, but I feel I am a better person for it. I spend much of my time in East End, helping the poor in whatever way I can. I have been entrusted to lead two art classes for the children - one for the smallest ones, one for the adolescents, those who haven’t yet found the path (often wrong) for themselves. It baffles me that others should trust me with such a task, but I’m doing my best. I have my doubts whether art could be of any help to people who scarcely have something to eat, but I have hope as well. What do you think? Could something like this help at all? _

 

_ I know I’d said I’ve been content in this city, and that was true. But a spark of true happiness came only when you answered my first letter. _

 

_ Indebted to you, _

_ Castiel Milton _

 

_ P.S. I’m sending you a few of my favorite last confessions. May they bring you merriment! _

  
  
  
  
  


_ December 1st, 1884 _

_ Riverside Drive, New York City _

 

_ Dear Castiel. _

 

_ Firstly, thank you so much for enclosing those last confessions. They were as fascinating as I’d imagined. I have to sneak around and see if there are any creative souls in New York who make a living writing pieces like this, too. I do have a soft spot for black humour and these sure make for a laugh. _

 

_ Now I, too, am honored that you feel inclined to discuss such private matters with me. _

 

_ What else is there to say other than - there is no perfect family because there is no perfect man. I would say that one of the things we two have in common is that we are both flawed, in one way or another. And that is perfectly alright. _

 

_ You asked if I thought that art could help the poor. I’m afraid I have been as ignorant as you had been once and I can’t answer this question properly. As an uninformed man, all I can say is that sometimes, focusing on something else than our troubles can be of great help. I struggled to accept this in the past, but I’ve come to realize it is true. Perhaps the children you teach will find so too. Either way, the work you’re doing is admirable and I should follow lead. _

 

_ On a lighter note, my brother kept asking why I suddenly spend so much time behind my writing desk, as that is not something I’d ever done much of. I hope you’ll forgive me for telling him I’ve met a handsome man who managed to escape from me to London. He mocked me mercilessly for our transatlantic correspondence, but I assure you it was out of brotherly love. _

 

_ I look at him, from time to time, and I am taken by jealousy. He is engaged to marry a Ms. Jessica Moore. She is the perfect fit for him, but what is more important, they love each other the way my father loved my mother, which comes with a sense of beauty and danger both. It is something I envy as it is something I had thought I’d never have. _

 

_ New York gets colder by the day. This cold makes me ponder whether I shouldn’t move West and become a small-town sheriff instead. I bet they don’t get snow at all! Don’t you hate winter? Everything seems a little empty during these chilly months, or perhaps it is the clear absence of something I so wish I could have, but don’t. _

 

_ I hope London continues to treat you well, Mr. Milton, and you find joy in your everyday life. _

 

_ Faithfully, _

_ Dean Winchester _

  
  
  
  
  


_ December 13th, 1884 _

_ Little Miracle _

 

_ Dear Dean, _

 

_ I am guilty of taking longer than I should have to reply to your letter. Please accept my apology. _

 

_ Thank you for your kind words regarding both my family and my work. Of course, charity isn’t the only thing keeping me busy these days. I’m sending a few sketches alongside with this letter, as well as a few more last confessions. I hope they’ll bring you good humor in these cold winter months and help lighten your mood. _

 

_ It is equally cold here in London. I can only agree with you that everything seems a bit emptier than usual, and I can only agree that it might as well simply be the absence of something. Or should I say someone? But perhaps I shouldn’t be rude so as to say so. _

 

_ I should like to meet your brother! He sounds like a good man and I bow to him for teasing you so. I wouldn’t have done a better job of it. You certainly deserved it for telling such lies. I, escaping! If it weren’t for that ticket, you never would have gotten rid of me. _

 

_ My sister doesn’t know it’s you I’m writing to. She probably thinks it’s Mother I’m informing of my life so eagerly. At the same time, I think she suspects something. Every once in a while, when it’s just our family at dinner, she looks at me in this and that way. I might just have to tell her the same thing you’d told your brother. I’m sure she would tease me just as much, too. _

 

_ In all honesty, I grow rather sentimental during this time of the year. I hope it will mean no offense should I say that when we have company over on Christmas Day, I will miss your presence sorely. I’m sure it will be fine company and there will be laughter and joy - yet I’m certain I will miss you there. _

 

_ Isn’t it strange how you can meet someone overnight and then get to know them through letters? Moreso, how strange it is to find a friend. _

 

_ Please forgive me for these sentimental lines. _

 

_ Merry Christmas to you and your brother, Dean. _

 

_ Affectionately, _

_ Castiel Milton _

  
  
  
  
  


_ December 13th, 1884 _

_ Riverside Drive, New York City _

 

_ Cas! _

 

_ I am such a fool. _

 

_ It was too late when I had realized we wouldn’t have time to exchange two more letters before the new year comes. _

 

_ Excuse this short note, written in such haste. _

 

_ I simply wish to say I hope you spend Christmas with the people you adore and who adore you. If I’m correct, there is a six-hour difference between you and I. I shall be up at midnight and think of you as you wake up to your Christmas Day. That way, I will be there even when I am not. _

 

_ Merry Christmas! Have a drink for my sake when the New Year comes. _

 

_ Yrs,  _

_ Dean Winchester _

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


Castiel tossed away yet another sketch.

 

This had been happening frequently as of late, and it was driving him insane. He used to keep  _ everything, _ whether it was good or bad or anywhere in between.

 

Lately, though? That was a different story altogether.

 

His live-model lectures had been merciless. Castiel had realized that although he liked sketching the people around him more than anything else, his knowledge of the human body had been… a joke, to put it harshly.

 

The first month or so of anatomy lectures was eye-opening.

 

Twice a week, a lady sat for them - Castiel and the other students - and slowly, Castiel started to build up his confidence. What for, though?

 

He kept returning to sketches of naked bodies. Telling himself that it was a sort of practice because it was something that simply interested him at the time, he never tried to stop himself from doing so. However, he ended up getting rid of nearly all of them.

 

He scrunched them up and threw them away every time he realized he was drawing Dean’s face to them from memory.

 

It was Dean lounging on a divan. It was Dean leaning against the doorway. It was Dean undressing; Dean sleeping, the sheets cast aside; Dean sitting with his legs crossed and a lop-sided grin splitting his face. It was Dean, Dean, Dean.

 

And Castiel didn’t know what exactly he should do about it.

 

_ Should  _ he even do something about it?

 

Their letters had been growing more and more personal, and more and more difficult to navigate. It was at that point where Castiel wasn’t quite sure where the boundaries lay, what their limits were. He hated being so uncertain of it, and he hated not being able to talk of it with anyone.

 

He had been right in his last letter - Christmas felt rubbish, as the British would have said.

 

Anna and Garth had a few friends over to celebrate over luxurious supper and far too much fruit wine - or Madeira, whichever they picked - but Castiel felt… that exact kind of emptiness that they had discussed in their previous letters.

 

The worst thing was that he simply did not know what to do. He couldn’t even figure out  _ why _ it was happening.

 

Castiel, albeit quite the artistic type, had always prided himself in being able to see the logic and reasoning behind everything.

 

He had to explain his feelings to himself so he could comprehend them and he definitely needed to  _ understand _ his life in order to live it. Secretly, he even believed that this ability to understand was behind his being a somewhat good artist.

 

Dean had made a complete mess out of that.

 

All Castiel knew was that something had happened when they met, but he couldn’t find a reasonable explanation for any of it.

 

He told himself,  _ Let’s look at this realistically, let’s think about this. _ And he would spend many a moment reflecting upon it.

 

They spent a night together, but all in all, it shouldn’t have been as formative as it was proving to be. Yes, they did spend a night together - but it wasn’t spectacular or rich in new experiences (if Castiel excluded the brief, unfulfilled visit to the brothel). He’d wanted more out of that night, that much he could recall at any given time, yet he hadn’t gotten it. So why couldn’t he let go? Or was that the reason - that unknown something that was still hanging between them much like forbidden fruit? One just had to get a taste of it. Or was that too harsh of an allegory?

 

Their letters gave no clue as to why Castiel felt the way he did. They exchanged flirtations, that much was obvious, and they were growing more intense all the while.

 

Why did Castiel feel inclined to flirt and tease so in the first place, however?

 

It almost felt as if there was something pulling him towards Dean, something he couldn’t describe or know the name of. That was threatening to drive him insane as well - there was, of course, no way to explain something inexplicable. It was perhaps the very first time in his life that Castiel couldn’t explain his emotions, but was forced to feel them anyway.

 

One can get quite miserable when such a thing occurs.

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


Anna was working on her embroidery - which was practically the only “feminine” hobby she indulged in, aside from liking to buy pretty dresses and flowers - as Castiel reclined on the floor by her feet.

 

Their family room seemed as if it had been designed just for Little Miracle. It was little, and it was miraculous.

 

There were two armchairs and a fireplace. Anna always said that when the little ones come, they would have to re-build it, but it had felt too cosy and perfect to do such a thing right away. It was designed according to the latest fashion, with a heavy rug covering the floor and heavy furniture lining the room. The fireplace was the biggest component, taking up nearly half of one wall. As a well-liked public figure, Garth had access to the finest new technologies - they even had electricity.

 

With only Anna present, Castiel could have used the available armchair, but he enjoyed sitting on a cushion on the floor near the fireplace, exactly like he was now. He simply enjoyed sitting down and stretching out to read, far more than he could ever enjoy the restrictions of the chairs.

 

He usually sat directly by the fireplace, as it was winter and he often felt shaken to the bone with the cold, but tonight he sat on a cushion near Anna’s feet. He knew he wanted to talk, but he didn’t quite know how to broach the subject.

 

He kept turning the pages of his book one by one without truly paying attention to them - or even reading them properly, to be perfectly honest - and he could feel his heartbeat increase with anxiety.

 

Anna was humming a melody that Castiel didn’t recognize as she worked.

 

He felt almost bad for interrupting her, but he could no longer keep quiet. His need to talk was threatening to make him explode. Straight to the point, he decided.

 

“What would you say if I were to tell you that I met someone just before leaving for England?” he asked.

 

Anna stopped her humming, but she gave no notice of stirring or taking interest, other than what should be expected of her. Even Castiel kept staring down at the page of his book, despite not even knowing what he had grabbed from the library. Chances were it was Dickens, whom Castiel had taken a liking to because he thought Dickens fought with the social constructs and felt it necessary to discuss the upper- and lower-class people as much as he did these days.

 

The specific letters kept blurring right before his eyes, however, and his fingers were leaving a sticky nervous mark on every page he’d turned.

 

“Well, I suppose I would ask who it was,” she said in the end.

 

Castiel sighed. “It’s a person who seemed interesting to me from the moment I laid eyes on them. I sketched them and they caught me in the act. I felt ashamed at first, but a conversation sparked up between us and we spent some time together. Just that one night - not even all of it, really. I found myself being pulled to their mind and their body, which I hadn’t quite experienced before.”

 

“I remember when I first met Garth,” Anna mused. “Not a single one of the other debutantes noticed him. I seem to remember they called him all bone and no muscle, as if that should make him less of a man. I think I was drawn to him, perhaps the same way you feel drawn to this person. Is that why you were asking, to see if it was similar?”

 

“I suppose so,” said Castiel quietly. “We have been exchanging letters.”

 

“Ha,” Anna huffed out, “I told Garth it wasn’t our beloved Mother.”

 

“Did you bet on it?”

 

“No. I don’t do that anymore. I’m a married lady now.” He could hear the smile in her voice.

 

Castiel barked out a laugh. “Your loss, then.”

 

“Yes, you’ve always loved changing the subject,” she commented dryly.

 

There was ruffling behind him and Castiel assumed she had put the embroidery away. Resolutely, he closed his book as well and turned on the cushion so he was facing her.

 

“What would you say… if I were to tell you this person was… Ah.” Castiel trailed off. Deep inside, he knew that Anna wouldn’t judge him, but it was still difficult to say the words. It wasn’t uncommon for men to sleep with other men, but it certainly wasn’t the norm to fall for them and pursue them romantically. Sex was okay, as if two men together simply represented more masculine power - but love made it wrong in the eyes of some.

 

“Well?” Anna prompted him kindly.

 

“His name is Dean Winchester,” Castiel breathed out in the end. It was quiet and insecure. He felt so small, so incredibly small!

 

One of the children of East End once told him that she didn’t like to go outside of that part of the city because it was the only place that felt like home even though she recognized it was far from perfect - the rest of the world simply made her feel tiny and insignificant. Poverty was preferable to shrinking to the size of a peanut.

 

It was as if Castiel had stepped out of such a space, a space he’d known all his life, and there was far too much light cast upon him now. His shadow was bigger than he could ever be - it felt that way, at least.

 

“Oh,” Anna said. She put her hands together in her lap and hummed. “But isn’t that…” Castiel’s heart stopped. “...Isn’t that the fellow whose family caused quite the scandal years and years ago?”

 

Castiel choked on his own saliva. “A scandal?”

 

“Oh, yes, you probably don’t remember because you were too small - even I was a child still. I think his name was John, Mr. John Winchester. Yes, it was quite the scandal, everyone was talking about it - he ended up a widower after a rather sad accident. He upped and left shortly after that, leaving his children - two, I think it was? - in the care of a family friend. Mr. Singer, I seem to recall. Is it that Winchester?”

 

“And that is all you care about?” Castiel asked. He’d stopped listening to Anna’s gossip when he realized it was something he knew already.

 

Anna’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Why, of course. I should like to know what kind of family this fellow comes from if you like him so.”

 

“But he is… Well. Anna, he’s a gentleman. It is not like I have found a lady to marry for myself. Are you sure you understand what I’m saying?”

 

Anna smiled. It seemed a knowing grin; gentle in a way. She leaned in and caressed his hair briefly. She’d used to run her fingers through his dark locks for hours on end when they were children, laying in bed at night together.

 

“My dear brother. There are those who wish not to marry, and then there are those who can’t. They are not any lesser for it.”

 

“Oh,” Castiel breathed out.

 

“Does he feel the same way towards you, love?” she asked.

 

Castiel remembered the words Dean had sent him, the way he wrote  _ with those who adore you _ and  _ I will be there even when I am not _ . Implying he counted himself amongst such people.

 

He felt his cheeks burn a bright red. He cast his eyes down. “I think he might,” he admitted.

 

“Oh, why the sad face, then, brother?”

 

Castiel’s face involuntarily stretched in a smile. When he looked up, he saw that Anna was smiling as well. He reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing her skinny, pin-pricked fingers.

 

“What should I ever do without you?”

 

Anna laughed. “Perish, most likely.”

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


Castiel felt frustrated with himself. He kept re-drafting, sometimes completely rewriting, his letter to Dean. The first letter of the year. He couldn’t shake the idea that it was somehow important.

 

He was desperate to address the thing, whatever it was, between them.

 

But then he didn’t know how.

  
  


_ Dean, it has been a month of Sundays. I thought I wanted to leave New York to search for something more, when in fact I had been waiting for you. I cannot wrap my mind around my being here and your being across the ocean. I simply do not understand it or what it means and how it can be that we should be so far apart. _

  
  


He tossed it. He bared himself too much, made himself too vulnerable, and he hated it.

  
  


_ Am I the only one tossing and turning each night? I keep telling myself it is the winter still and that is the reason for my restlessness. There is this thought, however, at the back of my mind, and it keeps suggesting that it is just that my bed is frightfully empty and I am painfully aware of it, because I have known who I wish to be by my side for a long time now. _

  
  


Too courageous, too open. It showed too much, it told everything. How could Castiel ever suggest such things, whether he felt confident that Dean would understand or not?

  
  


_ I really do not know what it is that makes me long for you so, mind, body and soul. I cannot explain it. You might think me crazy for feeling this way after a few hours in your company. You might not even remember my face any longer. I remember. You said you weren’t sure if I would, but I remember everything. _

 

_ Your face, the words you said, everything I know about you and everything I’m painfully aware of not knowing. And I cannot explain it, but I wake up each morning wishing you were there. If you have an explanation for such behavior, I would appreciate if you decided to share it with me. For I understand none of it; all I know is that you have become the one thing I wish to know in life. _

 

_ And what am I to do? _

  
  


But that was just a confession he would never dare send. Castiel wrote it down in an incredible rush, simply to get his thoughts down on paper and give them some kind of shape. It didn’t help any, but at least they existed somewhere else other than his mind.

 

On one hand, Castiel felt it would be okay to fold this paper neatly, seal it with wax the old-fashioned way, and send it. On the other, he also knew he couldn’t. It felt like he was asking a question that he didn’t know the answer to; or perhaps he didn’t wish to know it.

 

He was scared, and that was the root of it all.

 

So he settled on the more generic letter instead, where he apologized for his inability to speak more freely, and sent it with a heavy heart.

 

In fact, all through his life - his relationship with his mother, his loneliness, his desperate search to find a place for himself - it had never felt heavier before.

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


_ January 8th, 1885 _

_ Little Miracle _

 

_ Dear Dean, _

 

_ Forgive me for addressing you in such a familiar way. I know it is frowned upon to use each other’s first names unless it is family, and perhaps I’m ignorant to say so, but I feel like it is appropriate. _

 

_ Forgive me, also, for taking such a long time to reply. I was right in assuming that Christmas would be lonely and this winter would be cold. These assumptions were - or in the case of the winter, still are - true. This winter is exceptionally merciless, I think. _

 

_ There are matters which I would love to discuss with you, but I don’t quite know how to put them down on paper. These are the moments when I so hate the ocean between us: it prevents me from talking to you face to face. I would forgive it the sea-sickness, I would forgive it that it has stolen the color of my eyes, and I would forgive it for being so wild and free. Yet I shan’t ever forgive it for keeping me so far from you. _

 

_ I’m not quite sure how at the moment, but I shall find a way to discuss these things with you. I covet your thoughts on these matters. _

 

_ So for the time being, please do tell me how your Christmas was. Did you spend it with your brother? Was there much celebration, much wine? How’s the New York winter this year? Oh, and if you allow me to be selfish and indulge me - did you like the drawings I sent your way? _

 

_ All the best to you, my friend, and I still consider myself lucky to be able to call you such. _

 

_ Faithfully, _

_ Castiel Milton _

  
  


**xxx**

  
  
  


Castiel entered his room at Little Miracle only a few hours short of dawn. He’d had a glass too many of whiskey. He could smell it on his own breath and he could feel it sparkling through his body.

 

It reminded him of that night with Dean, even though he was wary of such comparisons.

 

He undid his tie and unbuttoned his waistcoat. The room was dimly lit and only added to his mood, which was that of a restless soul filled with longing. Even  _ that _ somehow reminded him of that one night; the brothel had been just as dimly lit, the same heavy atmosphere hanging just above the ground like mist.

 

It was lust he felt, Castiel knew. It would have been so easy to go home with someone tonight, yet he didn’t.

 

London was easy, as far as sex was concerned. Easier than New York, possibly because Castiel still felt like an outsider, like a visitor.

 

There was a woman at the Good Angel - the pub Castiel had spent his evening at - slightly older than him. She had used the same techniques Castiel once had - casting her eyes down, counting on the attractive flutter of her eyelashes, whenever they came upon exchanging looks. Even right next to him, Castiel had an attractive man of his own age.

 

They had spoken of silly issues - the more whiskey, the sillier the conversation. Castiel had liked him just the right amount: enough to want him, not enough to  _ want _ him.

 

Castiel giggled to himself as he kept shedding clothes when he remembered the man. He had looked a little like Dean, if Castiel was to be honest with himself.

 

Only in his shirt, unbuttoned and opened around his torso, and his underwear, Castiel sat down on his bed. He felt awful about the pile of dirty clothes that he left lying on the floor, but he couldn’t make himself get up again and put them in order.

 

The alcohol was still making its way through him. He felt a little dizzy, the room spinning around him quite so, and he knew he would feel ashamed in the morning. 

 

This had been different from that night with Dean. Then, he had kicked back glass after glass because he had felt like he had won the lottery. Tonight, he drank because he wanted to forget about it.

 

That was, of course, absolutely unsuccessful and pointless. Even now, sitting on his bed, Castiel was aware of it.

 

Why didn’t he go home with someone? Or not even go home with someone - venturing up to a rentable room would have been enough.

 

But, of course, Dean. Goddamn Dean. Always on Castiel’s mind, ever-present. Like a fever you can’t shake.

 

And what was it about Dean anyway?

 

“That stupid face of his,” Castiel muttered to himself.

 

He laid back, hitting the bed with his back, but his legs still touching the floor. His fingers mindlessly traced the skin of his torso where the shirt lay open.

 

“That stupid, symmetrical face of his,” he whispered.

 

He stared at the ceiling - because closing his eyes made the dizziness worse - and he let his fingers keep at it.

 

Castiel parted his lips slightly, mimicking the way Dean’s had been when they talked. That eagerness in the gesture, but the innocence of it at the same time.

 

On any other night, Castiel would have tried to talk himself out of dwelling on the memory. On any other night, he would have tried to tell himself that Dean wasn’t, in fact, as beautiful as his memory was making him out to be - he was ordinary, just like everyone else. That he had a limp and that must surely be unattractive and not the exact opposite, and that he kissed like a man who had kissed many a mouth before. The feelings Dean had described, and the emptiness that Castiel’s absence had created, couldn’t have been anything special. The man must have slept with many. Must have loved many.

 

On any other night but this night.

 

Castiel never believed his own lies, no discussion of that, but he couldn’t even begin to spin them tonight.

 

As he felt his arousal grow, all he could do was reach down with his palm and release himself.

 

He bit his lip as his hand slid into his underwear. The fabric moved against his skin and, combined with the moment when he touched himself, it felt almost as good as if the hand belonged to someone else.

 

Castel took a deep breath. His cheeks reddened from his longing and the alcohol, and he told himself this was alright.

 

His mind started racing. If only ships travelled this fast, Castiel would be standing by Dean’s door in mere minutes.

 

The drawings he kept tossing away of Dean’s nude body were nothing compared to what he was imagining.

 

If only those parted lips ever traced the outline of muscle on Castiel’s body - if they ever left a wet trail in their wake. If those hands only touched Castiel’s skin - they could scratch or grab or hold, and he would be grateful. If only that body - that Castiel had imagined in detail long ago, certain that reality could only improve this image - lay across from his. On top of his. Entwined, perhaps. Made into one, somehow.

 

Castiel bit his lips harder when a moan threatened to escape his throat.

 

He imagined Dean’s hot breath on his skin. He fully believed, for just the right amount of time, that Dean’s hand was his hand and vice versa. He imagined the soft touch of lips and the harsh movement of teeth. He imagined Dean’s hand embracing Castiel’s length and copied the imagined movement with his own.

 

The name danced on his lips and he wanted to cry out. There was nothing - there had never been anything - that he desired more.

 

Dean could be here, in this bed, doing no more than watching with his green eyes, and Castiel would come just as easily. His presence alone would be enough.

 

His wrist twisted and he quickened the movements of his palm. His fingers squeezed, precise, and again Castiel imagined they were Dean’s.

 

He moved up on the bed, his heels pressing into the sheets now, legs bent at the knees. He closed his eyes because he couldn’t help himself any longer; the dizziness almost felt good. Castiel fought with himself - he wanted to turn onto his front and kneel, he wanted to fist the sheets, he wanted...

 

A whimper made it out of his mouth after all. Still moving his hand up and down his cock, he brought his other hand up to his mouth and bit down on the back of it.

 

He couldn’t help the little  _ ahs _ and  _ ohs _ either way, however.

 

And then he thought - and it was a simple thought, one Castiel wasn’t quite sure where it had come from - that maybe, Dean had done the very same thing… oh, just maybe, some lonely night, some drunken night, just maybe he laid like this and touched himself like this and had to fight to prevent himself from screaming out Castiel’s name.

 

Or maybe he never managed it. Maybe he didn’t want to fight it, but it was “ _ Cas _ ” in Dean’s mouth. And maybe he had imagined the same thing as well - bodies entwined, tangled, the heat of skin. And fucking, for the lack of a better word.

 

It was this thought, and Castiel didn’t need much more than that. He came with a yelp, staining his fingers and his thighs, muscles tensing and shaking.

 

He wanted to feel ashamed, he really did - he didn’t even want to wait until morning - but then he thought,  _ Dean is a man of many wonders. He might just enjoy this sight - a lover, spent, filthy, but with Dean’s name on his lips. He might just think it a compliment. _

 

It was the drink talking, but it still made Castiel smile.

 

That was also the moment that he realized that he had been - they both had - incredibly stupid and childish about everything.


	3. PART III

**PART III:**

 

**A DREAM, (...) I WISH YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU INSPIRED IT**

 

_ (Charles Dickens / A Tale of Two Cities) _

  
  
  


A canvas stood propped against the far wall and Castiel sat on the bed, facing it as if it were his nemesis.

 

The painting was shabby at best. It looked that way to Castiel’s eyes, at least. It danced in color, but the lines were all odd-shaped, the tones blurred together in all the strangest places. The whole picture was uneven and  _ wrong. _

 

He sighed and averted his eyes so as not to have to look at it anymore.

 

Perhaps he was only good at sketching. Perhaps actual painting wasn’t for him and everything was a waste of time.

 

_ Or, perhaps, _ tried the reasonable voice in his mind,  _ I should not base my opinion of my art on one sad excuse of a painting. And perhaps, I should not form an opinion of my own art altogether. _

 

Another sigh rolled off his lips.

 

Castiel got up and walked across the room. He gently turned the canvas around so it was facing the wall. He shall gift Anna something else for her birthday, then.

 

_ Or perhaps, I ought to try and paint another one- _

 

But this time, Castiel silenced the voice. He didn’t feel like torturing himself with yet another failed art piece. Something else would have to do. At the back of his mind, he knew that he’d been frustrated with canvases ever since they switched to them at the Academy. It was not something he excelled at, though he was willing to keep trying. Practice makes perfect, after all, as Naomi liked to say - every unsuccessful attempt still stung like a bee, however.

 

_ I like bees _ , Castiel told himself whenever the comparison came to his mind. It was easier then.

 

He was about to undress and take a bath because his hands were dirty from paint all the way up to his wrists when there was a sudden knock at his door.

 

“Just a moment!” Castiel called. He had already unbuttoned half of his shirt.

 

Whoever it was behind the door disregarded the call and the door creaked open. Castiel’s face had begun to scrunch up in a frown when Balthazar appeared in the doorway.

 

“Well, well, well,” Balthazar hummed and let his eyes go down the length of Castiel’s practically half-naked body. “Have I accidentally stepped into Eden?”

 

Castiel’s first reflex was to roll his eyes - which he did - but he was so excited to see Balthazar, especially when he hadn’t been expecting him, that his frown quickly turned into a smile. He hurried across the room and they embraced.

 

“Let go,” Balthazar saif after a few seconds, “or your sister shall call us lovebirds. She is wicked, that one.”

 

Castiel laughed. “It takes one to know one, Balthazar.”

 

“Touche,” Balthazar nodded. He took Castiel by the shoulder and looked at him intently. “You’ve changed. Is London so good to you?”

 

Castiel blushed and quickly looked away. He felt as if though his eyes would betray him, telling the story of the true reason behind his change in between blinks easily. He had changed and he was aware of as much - it wasn’t just London, though, working its magic. He had come alive thanks to Dean, even though he had yet to gather up the courage to act on it.

 

“You, on the other hand,” said Castiel, “look ever the same. Where have you been? What are you doing here?”

 

“I’ve been here and there, breaking a few hearts and mending a few. And I’m here because I missed you terribly, of course.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“I am in dire need of a walk. Would you do me the honors and accompany me? We have much catching up to do.

 

Castiel looked down at himself. “If you give me a few minutes to wash and change my clothes-”

 

“Oh, fimble-famble,” Balthazar hushed him. Throwing his arm across Castiel’s shoulders, he pulled him close and pointed them both towards the door. “Be a little eccentric. How else could anyone take you for an artist?”

 

“Have I ever accused you of being a bad influence?” Castiel asked, but he let himself be walked out of the room despite the evident blush in his cheeks.

 

Balthazar tsked and closed the door behind them. “Do you think Anna should mind, were I to tell her that her marriage has not shaken my eternal love for her and I’m ready to profess it any time she asks?”

 

“I’m not sure. Do you think you would mind being slapped in the face?”

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


Of course, the walk Balthazar had been in such dire need of never happened.

 

He asked Castiel what pubs and bars he frequented and though Castiel tried to navigate his way out of the conversation, he ended up taking Balthazar to the Good Angel.

 

Situated in Belgravia, the fancy, posh part of town, Castiel felt a little guilty. For all his work trying to discuss poverty and its causes, and help, it was still the easiest to waltz into the wealthy part of London and have fun. He’d spend quite a few nights there, and it had never made him a better man.

 

Castiel told himself it was only for the sake of cheap entertainment and that he would bring up the other issues the following day, once he and Balthazar had caught up with each other and had had a sufficient amount of alcohol - at least on Balthazar’s part.

 

Balthazar didn’t look it, but he had changed as well, as Castiel realized soon upon entering the Good Angel.

 

They sat together and Balthazar made no indication that he should want to leave and search the company of other, merrier gentlemen. He seemed content by Castiel’s side, as they talked and teased each other.

 

Castiel secretly suspected a love affair that had accidentally turned into something more. (His imagination had already led him to a scenario in which Balthazar was denied the love of his desired and had had to leave wherever he was at the time ashamed and belittled. That would have certainly left a mark on the man - a mark he’d probably deserved.)

 

“Have you any news of New York?” Balthazar asked at some point during the evening.

 

“Ah, not particularly, I’m afraid.”

 

“Aren’t you corresponding with your poor mother?”

 

Castiel sighed. They were sitting on the bar stools. The establishment was crowded, noisy and filled with cigar smoke, which offered a sense of privacy. “Yes, from time to time. We don’t discuss New York often,though. I think my mother hates the city with all her heart.”

 

Balthazar gasped and clutched at his chest. “You just admitted to your mother having a heart!”

 

Castiel shook his head but laughed. “Either way, she doesn’t speak much of the city. Maybe she simply wants me to forget about it so I don’t get any ideas of coming back.”

 

_ As if his mother could ever be the reason for that. _

 

“I’m  _ desperate  _ to know more about that beautiful part of the world, but you know I hate the newspaper so. You’ve no other friends there?”

 

Castiel briefly choked on the sip of gin he was in the process of swallowing. “I- well.” He wiped his mouth to get rid of the few drops of alcohol that had gone astray.  _ To tell or not to tell? _ Frankly, the old bard should have been asking  _ this _ question instead, for it was far more pressing and terrifying to decide.

 

Balthazar leaned to him. “You are being  _ extremely _ cryptic all of a sudden. So who is it?”

 

It’s  _ Dean. _ And what else was Castiel supposed to say? It was simply Dean.

 

Dean, who had replied to that terrible letter saying,  _ Cas, I should hope you know you can confide in me, no matter the subject. I shall lend an ear and offer a kind word whenever needed. And if it is something concerning our friendship, I shall wait patiently for when you are ready. _

 

And Castiel, who had replied,  _ Reading your letters by the fireplace are my moments of solace - the moments when the emptiness subsides. _

 

And then Dean,  _ I found myself on your old street. When I spotted the iron gate, I remembered us standing by it that night, and everything that happened, and the terrible sadness I felt when I left you there, standing behind the bars. I do not think that sadness has lifted since. _

 

And of course, Castiel,  _ I think of that night often, but the only way to hopefully make some light of it is to say that this sadness is shared. It gives me hope to think that shared sadness often brings better days. _

 

And suddenly it was March, and what did that make them?

 

Castiel might have had his moment of realization weeks ago, but it hadn’t made writing to Dean any easier. They danced around the subject expertly, neither of them willing to break the ice.

 

“His name is Dean,” Castiel said after all.

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


Once the secret about Dean was out, Castiel not only acted but felt like a freed man. He had told Anna, of course, but it was different with Balthazar because his feelings had changed; developed, evolved. From uncertain and easily shaken, they had become concrete and very much solid, even if they seemed foolish from time to time, given the mass of water parting them.

 

Castiel didn’t mind when a gentleman approached them an hour or so after he’d told Balthazar, and started a conversation.

 

The man had a strong accent and brows just as strong. His manner was controlled but cocky and he introduced himself as Crowley with a sly smile.

 

They chatted about silly matters - the weather and the royal family, talking much but not saying anything of import. For instance, Crowley had told them that the prime minister himself was known to frequent this very pub.  _ And what do you think of women being permitted to apply to Oxford? _ (All were in favor, which put them in a friendlier mood with each other.)

 

“Now, gentlemen,” Crowley was saying. He squeezed himself in between Balthazar and Castiel and addressed only the latter now. From up close, Castiel saw the wrinkles that started to crawl from around his eyes and mouth, and he noted the sheer blackness of his waistcoat and shirt. “I must admit I came to you for a reason.”

 

Castiel cocked his eyebrow. “Is that so?”

 

“Yes, but let me buy you another drink before I tell you it.” He confidently pointed at Castiel’s emptied glass and nodded at the bartender. It was as if though he owned the place.

 

“I’m terribly sorry, but if you want to impress someone by buying them alcohol, I should have been your pick,” Balthazar commented.

 

Castiel said nothing.

 

He looked at Crowley again and decided he didn’t like him much. There was something odd about the man - he seemed charming and kind, but the twinkle in his eye told of another story.

 

“Ah, a shame,” Crowley sighed, “For my abilities to pay for anyone’s drinks is formidable. I’m a banker, you see. A successful one.” He turned to Castiel again and winked. He was clearly extremely annoyed by Balthazar’s presence and he tried to exclude him from the conversation.

 

“I’m afraid I’m not a big drinker,” said Castiel.

 

“Yes. You don’t lack discipline, then, I assume.”

 

“I suppose so.”

 

“I like that very much,” Crowley told him. Without warning, he took Castiel’s hand and rolled his shirtsleeve up, slightly above the wrist. “Now, I couldn’t but notice your hands, Mr Milton - Castiel, if I may.” Castiel frowned. “Is this a disease of some sort?”

 

“It’s paint,” Castiel mumbled. He pulled away and rolled his sleeve back down over his stained skin.

 

“You are an artist, then?” Crowley inquired.

 

Castiel could see Balthazar looking in on the conversation, his head in Castiel’s peripheral vision, just above Crowley’s shoulder. He seemed ready to step in, should Castiel give him the signal.

 

Castiel considered, then nodded at Crowley’s question.

 

“A professional?”

 

Castiel’s frown deepened. “Enrolled at the Royal Academy. But I shall correct you - artists either are or aren’t. I may study it and become better for it, but I wouldn’t call myself a professional at any point.”

 

Crowley cocked his head. “That is quite interesting. Are you any good?”

 

Castiel’s eyes quickly went to Balthazar, looking for support. He didn’t consider himself to be the worst, but he surely didn’t consider himself to be an English-speaking Monet, either.

 

As if Crowley could hear his thoughts, he smiled. “I’m certainly not looking for an impressionist to doodle water lilies for me. Originality is key. What I  _ am _ looking for is profit. To profit, one must invest. The arts are an excellent field to invest in.”

 

_ That is not the reason why an artist should paint,  _ Castiel thought bitterly.  _ One paints because one must keep oneself alive. It is a life-force, art, and something as cheap as money should not undermine it. _

 

That was the opinion of the privileged, though - the privilege being that one could even entertain such thoughts without repercussions.

 

“So. Are you any good?” Crowley asked again directly. His lips curled in a grin.

 

At the mention of money, Balthazar’s interest had perked up.

 

“His pieces are marvelous,” he chimed in. Castiel looked at him with eyes wide open, but Balthazar gave him a nod to encourage him - count on me, it seemed to say. “This paint on his hands? I saw the piece he was working on. Simply excellent, Sir.”

 

“Excellent enough for a showing? Or better yet, for selling?”

 

Castiel’s heart quickened.

 

He had dreamed of this, of course. His dream was a two-faced villain. One side promised freedom and the joy of travel and inner peace searched and found through creation; the other was tempted to sell it. The worst part was that the other side seemed to support the first.

 

“For a showing?” Castiel breathed out. “For selling.”

 

Castiel let his thoughts run. It wouldn’t be for naught - should he sell anything, if he managed to create something good, he would have money. He already had a roof over his head and food on his plate each evening, but there were those who didn’t know such luxuries. This money could help him provide for them more than he had been able to so far.

 

The more selfish part of him, however, whispered to him the images of the English countryside, rich in nature and the people who lived in it, of Paris and its artistic melting pots, Montmartre and Monet, the true Bohemian life.

 

Wouldn’t that be perfect?

 

To finally be among those he could understand?

 

“I seem to have shocked you,” Crowley said. “Don’t worry - when I say profit, I simply mean that I want a small percentage of what the buyer will pay.”

 

_ And should my paintings not sell _ ? Castiel thought suddenly.

 

Balthazar jumped into the conversation again, asking about what exactly “a small percentage” meant and how Castiel would benefit, but Castiel himself couldn’t make himself listen any longer.

 

He knew, suddenly, the reason why Crowley’s offer had sounded so good for a brief moment. And why he’d lied to himself.

 

God, it was even the same lie he had told himself before he left New York - that he shall find company and people whose souls were like his over  _ there _ , where he was going. But  _ there  _ had turned into  _ here  _ and it wasn’t enough again -  _ there  _ was now a vague spot on the horizon once more, one to get to. Surely,  _ there  _ he could find company. Whether it was England or Paris or Transylvania.

 

Anything but  _ here _ .

 

He was running and that was all.

 

Out of fear, perhaps. Stagnation and then escape had always been Castiel’s pattern.

 

But how could he live this way? Suddenly, he didn’t understand. He wanted to sell his paintings, yes, one day - he wanted people to know him by name. Everyone dreams of such things. It wouldn’t have been right now, though - Castiel knew. When he imagined someone buying a collection of nude studies with Dean’s face, he shivered.

 

His art was an outlet because he carried chaos inside him and needed to sort it. He couldn’t focus on the  _ how  _ when he was so troubled by the  _ why _ , day and night.

 

_ I will not be a true artist until this is settled _ , he realized.

 

Balthazar and he walked out of the bar late in the night. Crowley had left long before them, once Castiel promised him a meeting. They were to meet for tea the following day, to discuss Castiel’s art and whether he would fulfil Crowley’s idea of profitable.

 

“I’m not going,” Castiel told Balthazar as they neared the end of Belgravia.

 

They were both looking for a carriage, but Balthazar stopped dead in his tracks. “Castiel. That is nonsense. You have got to see him.”

 

“No.”

 

“But this opportunity is surely a once in a life-”

 

“No,” Castiel repeated. “That is not what this is about.”

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


_ March 26th, 1885 _

_ Little Miracle _

 

_ Dearest Dean. _

 

_ I haven’t written in a while - and I apologize. I have been busy collecting my thoughts and much of my focus was on my art. Just a couple of weeks ago I despaired over my inability to express myself on canvas. I feared those simple sketches were all I could do, but I have filled a dozen canvases at least with color since then. It helped me think, and although my paintings seem abstract to a foreign eye, they reflect what I have been going through. _

 

_ Perhaps you recall I mentioned wishing I could talk to you. _

 

_ I feel spent after pouring my soul into a painting this afternoon, and am sipping on sherry as I write these lines, and that makes it easier. _

 

_ I could go on about the London weather - rainy as always - or my family life, but I cannot bear it any longer. So here is the truth, and I pray you shall take it. _

 

_ My life has changed and I have changed because of you. It would be a lie, should I give the credit to London and my newfound freedom. It is you, Dean. It has truly been you since the moment I saw you across the bar in New York. You couldn’t have been more wrong that night when you said I wouldn’t remember you. _

 

_ I do not know why it is. I do not know why I feel this way. Perhaps the reason isn’t really for me to know. But I am certain that one would never, under any circumstances, forget the person one loves. I have always felt honored to call you a friend, but the truth is that I have also always felt more than friendship towards you. _

 

_ It has been you and I think it will always be. Take me or leave me. I could not keep it a secret - before you or myself - any longer. _

 

_ I hope you shall reply, but I will understand if your interest in my person doesn’t go beyond flirting and - do I dare write it? - sex, and you decide to terminate our correspondence hence. _

 

_ Faithfully yours, _

_ Castiel Milton _

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


“I’m really alright,” Castiel insisted. He fidgeted in his chair and looked anywhere in the kitchen - the table, the kitchen-counter, the windows - but Anna.

 

“You could have been stomped to the ground!” she breathed out in a hiss.

 

Anna was fussing  _ and _ panicking, which had never been a good combination with anyone.

 

“Really, Anna, you are exaggerating.”

 

She continued cleaning the wound on Castiel’s forehead with a make-do gauze. Their faces were only a few inches apart and he noticed the way she pursed her lips in order to keep herself from saying any more.

 

Castiel’s ribs hurt. It wasn’t painful enough, however, to make him regret convincing Anna not to call for the family doctor. He teared up when she rubbed her herb-based antiseptic solution into his wound and the sting of it seemed to worm itself straight through his open skin and into live flesh.

 

“A nice gift you’re giving me for my birthday tomorrow.” Castiel cringed. That stung more than the antiseptic had. “At least it isn’t bleeding anymore,” she murmured. It seemed to have calmed her down a little.

 

“I did tell you it was nothing serious.”

 

“Don’t sass me.” She frowned. Taking a step back, she measured him with a harsh glance. “What on Earth is going on, Castiel?”

 

He flinched. He hated it when Anna took on the role of his mother. It had happened in the past. Not recently, though, and he was sad to think he was regressing back to his more complicated adolescent years.

 

He lowered his head, feeling his pulse in the wound. “It was an accident.”

 

Castiel had been on his way to Hyde Park, having finished his lectures an hour early that day. Lost in thought, he had simply failed to notice the carriage rushing down a busy street. He had jumped away just in time - he had miscalculated his landing, however, tripped and fell. He had landed face-first on the road, scratching up his face badly and bruising his ribs. He had remembered the way he nearly did the same thing when he was with Dean, except Dean held him back - there had been no Dean this time around.

 

That realization had hurt. It still hurt, far more than the cut on his forehead or the ribs.

 

“Please, brother,” Anna said. Her tone was harsh. His would have been, too, had someone delivered Anna to his door in a messed-up state, blooded and in pain. Clearly lying on top if it. “My love,” she went on when she saw his defeated expression and down-cast eyes.

 

“Simply an accident,” Castiel repeated. He hated himself for not being able to make his voice sound more confident. He also hated himself for worrying her and for failing to assure her he was alright.

 

She knelt before him and gently touched his hands, which had been lying idly in his lap. “Talk to me.”

 

Castiel took her hands and brought them up to his mouth to give them a kiss. He smiled at her, though he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone with it. “I’m quite alright, Anna. Don’t you worry about me.”

 

She sighed. Pulling away, she stood up and carded her fingers through his hair briefly.

 

He managed to keep the smile on his face until she left him in the kitchen. Then it dropped.

 

Castiel dragged his feet to his room and closed the heavy door. He lied on the bed carefully so as not to hurt his ribs any further. He closed his eyes.

 

Fatigue had come over him, but he had been in a state of daze for quite a while now. The days seemed to blur together and he didn’t know how to take any joy from them.

 

It wasn’t the complete truth that he had been simply lost in thought when the accident happened. It  _ was _ partially true, but there was another side to it - he also hadn’t been thinking about anything at all, his mind a void.

 

Being caught in between two sides of a coin is never fun.

 

When one side of it was wishing to continue living his days and creating (his room was cluttered with canvases now; some awful, some better than that) and the other was focusing on something that should have probably been buried in the past, it was nearly unbearable.

 

The letter was sent and Castiel spent the past seven weeks wishing that it hadn’t been. First because of anxiety, later because of shame.

 

Writing  _ I will understand _ , should Dean want to end their friendship, was one thing. Actually living through it, however, was Hell.

 

Castiel had waited the usual twenty-day period (give or take) it took for them to exchange letters sitting on the proverbial edge of a chair. Then there was no letter, the chair was triggered and Castiel fell right onto his ass.

 

Whether he regretted sending it was a different question, though - and it didn’t matter anyhow. If he hadn’t sent it, he would have regretted that as well.  _ Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, _ he thought regularly throughout the day. Perhaps he was thinking it even as he was crossing the street and the carriage nearly ran him over.

 

“He is just one man,” Castiel told himself, lying in the bed.

 

His palm was resting over the hurt ribs on his left side. He unbuttoned his shirt and touched the skin. Imagining the bruise that would probably form overnight, he ran his fingers over the spot.

 

Castiel wished he could blame Dean. It was his initiative, however, to send the letter, and it was his stupidity in nearly getting run to the ground.

 

“He is just one man,” he repeated, “and I do not need him.”

 

When Castiel found he didn’t believe his own lies, he made a promise to himself: tomorrow.

 

Tomorrow he would get up from this bed, he would go back to his lectures, he would go to East End, and should his fingers itch to write Dean all about it, he would crack his knuckles or rub that itch out.

 

He would  _ not _ spend tomorrow thinking about the man who didn’t want him, but he absolutely  _ would  _ look twice before crossing the street.

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


Knocking woke Castiel up the following day.

 

He quickly realized that the promise he had made to himself was not going to be fulfilled. His face was alright as far as feeling was concerned, but his ribs were hurting a lot.

 

“Come in,” he croaked, sitting up in his bed with difficulty. His body felt stiff and alien, as if it weren’t his.

 

Anna’s face appeared in the doorway. She wore a light sky-blue dress, her hair pinned up with few locks of it cascading down around her face. She looked very beautiful – it was her birthday, after all, and perhaps Garth had surprised her with something. It startled Castiel, each time he realized that this lovely creature was his sister.

 

“There’s a gentleman here who wants to see you,” she informed him.

 

Castiel rubbed his face tiredly. “Who is it?”

 

“He didn’t give a name, but he insists he must see you. He told me you’re expecting him.”

 

“Anna, please, I am very clearly a ruin. I don’t want to go meet strangers,” he whined.

 

“I do not think he is a stranger,” Anna countered, her eyes giving a strange twinkle.

 

Castiel groaned. “Balthazar and his stupid games,” he mumbled. “Fine. Tell him to wait for me in the library. Do not tell him, but I want to smack him over the head with Garth’s copy of  _ War and Peace _ .”

 

Anna didn’t say anything. She only nodded and moved to exist Castiel’s room when he stopped her.

 

“Anna?” he called. She turned back to him. “Happy birthday. I’m sorry about yesterday.”

 

He caught her in a good mood, for she smiled at him and nodded again. “Apology accepted. Thank you, love.”

 

She left, giving Castiel privacy to dress.

 

It took Castiel about ten minutes longer than usual to put on all his clothes with his ribs acting out and causing him to pause constantly; starting with his trousers and ending with a dark-purple bowtie to correspond with his moss-green waistcoat. His undershirt was a little rumpled, but he was happy to be buttoned up and ready to see the man and he couldn’t care less about a few wrinkles in the fabric.

 

On his way to the library, he tried to prepare himself for Balthazar’s snarky remarks, which were bound to happen once Balthazar saw Castiel’s scratched-up face.

 

However, the second he opened the two-wing door, all his worries and mental preparations simply flew out of the window.

 

Castiel couldn’t mistake the figure for anyone.

 

The styled hair, the strong arms, the shoulder-to-waist ratio curving the back into an attractive line. Black clothes, an expensive overcoat atop the suit. And the cane with the golden head in one hand. His back was to Castiel, but he knew him right away.

 

Stupidly, laughably, Castiel’s first thought was  _ Don’t forget to catch his scent this time. _

 

Then he remembered that this wasn’t possible, that he was most likely hallucinating because Anna’s antiseptic was actually some sort of unknown opiate, and this wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

 

And then, of course, Dean turned around and his face was sunshine and New York and spring all in one, with a crooked smile on top.

 

Castiel didn’t know what to say. His mind was racing, going  _ Dean. Dean? Dean! Dean. Dean. Dean…? _ But he didn’t know how to articulate it, and perhaps that was fortunate.

 

Dean, on the other hand, seemed eager to dismiss the etiquette and didn’t need words to do it. Castiel was reminded of his limp when Dean rushed towards him across the room and took him in his arms, hugging him.

 

Castiel cried out, a sound of pain that echoed through him as Dean squeezed his ribs. He didn’t return the hug because of it, and the shock.

 

Dean pulled away. He only seemed to notice the state Castiel was in now. With his free hand, he confidently reached up and touched the skin near the cut on Castiel’s forehead. “What happened to you, Cas? Did you get into a brawl?”

 

_ He smells like cigar smoke _ , Castiel thought numbly _.  _ That was all he could get.

 

He stared.

 

“Cat got your tongue?” Dean asked with a grin. He looked so happy. Castiel couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, practically a whisper. “How?”

 

Dean’s smile seemed to falter. “It is the seventeenth of May,” he said. “Did I mess up the dates in the letter I sent? I’m terrible at them.”

 

“What letter?”

 

“The letter I sent you?” Dean’s voice went up in a question.

 

Castiel could hear footsteps outside the library. It must have been Anna checking in. Considering Dean’s clearly American accent and his easy manner - and telling her that Castiel was expecting him - well. She had always been smart. She must have had it figured out when she was waking him up. She was probably considering inviting Dean over for her birthday dinner right in that moment.

 

Castiel kept quiet until the footsteps faded away. As much as he loved his sister, he didn’t want her eavesdropping.

 

“You sent me no letter,” Castiel argued. “Not since March.”

 

“Cas.” Dean laughed. “I - I received your last letter, from the twenty-sixth of March. It might have taken me a couple of days to put together a reply as I needed to buy a ticket and sort out everything, but I did write back.”

 

Castiel shook his head. After the last few weeks of despair and misery, which he had brought onto himself by way of his own over-thinking, he wasn’t ready or keen to accept such an explanation. “You’re lying.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

Another shake of Castiel’s head. He took a step back. “You’re lying. You say you wrote to me. Where is the letter, then? I’ve nothing.”

 

Castiel saw that when Dean frowned, a wrinkle appeared between his brows. It was fascinating and Castiel wished he was brave enough to do the same as Dean - reach out and touch.

 

“I’ve no idea,” Dean said pleadingly. “But I sent it. I wrote - I said I had felt the same ever since I met you and that I must come see you immediately because I can’t stay - well, I couldn’t stay away. I was never certain if you really felt the same. I suppose I just need to be told directly because it’s difficult to believe that anyone - and someone like  _ you _ , at that, would ever - well. I did write back and said I would visit. That my ship would arrive in Liverpool on the sixteenth of May and I would be here the next day.” His features hardened. “And I’m no liar, Cas.”

 

Castiel laughed. It was inappropriate and perhaps a little hysterical, but he couldn’t come up with a better response.

 

His mind kept playing what Dean had just said in a loop and he still couldn’t believe it. Even if he managed to accept the misplaced letter that had never arrived, the rest seemed just as improbable.

 

Dean closed the distance between them again. “Would you please say something?”

 

“I wish I knew what to say,” breathed out Castiel.

 

He looked up, admiring the slight height difference between them, and stared into Dean’s eyes. He was lost in the green of them right away. He suddenly felt as if  his bowtie was choking him and his waistcoat was too tight. His heart was racing, he was breathing heavily and his ribs weren’t in favor of any of it. They threatened to rip through his skin to get out of such prison.

 

“I need to sit down,” Castiel said.

 

Without further explanation, he left Dean where he was and walked towards the sofa. He sat down and stared at the floor.

 

“Are you alright?” Dean asked. He walked to him, but he didn’t dare sit down without being invited to.

 

Castiel tried to breathe slowly and carefully until his heart and lungs accepted, finally, that Dean was here and that what he was saying was perhaps the truth. He so wanted to doubt it, but those eyes couldn’t look at him with such kindness and  _ love _ if it hadn’t been true.

 

“Sit down,” Castiel finally said and patted the sofa right next to him.

 

Dean obeyed and sat down carefully, leaning his cane against the sofa.

 

“What’s that?” Castiel asked, pointing at the golden head.

 

Dean took the cane and handed it to Castiel. “It was a gift from Sam. He gave it to me as a Christmas gift many years ago, when he was still a child. I, as well. I’ve carried it with me since. As for what it means, I’m not sure. I value it because it came from him. The only thing I could find about it is that these,” he pointed at the strange face now, “were supposed to burn hot in God’s presence. What that stands for I’ve no clue.”

 

“That’s fascinating,” Castiel murmured, tracing his fingers alongside the lines of the head. “Is Sam fine with your being here?”

 

Dean smiled. “My brother is a happily engaged grown man. He doesn’t need his nuisance of a brother. What about you, though? Are you fine with my being here?”

 

“Dean,” Castiel whispered. He looked back up again even though it was impossible to keep his heart in check upon seeing Dean’s face. “Is what you said really true?”

 

“All of it,” said Dean immediately. He cupped Castiel’s cheek gently, his thumb lightly tracing over Castiel’s cheekbone. “I promise you, all of it. I couldn’t be without you any longer. Do you still - do you still want me?”

 

Even now, Castiel didn’t know what it meant. He didn’t know why it was happening.

 

Perhaps there are questions that don’t need answers because they contain them. Why did Castiel feel this way about Dean? That’s exactly why. It just was. And it was a beautiful feeling - there couldn’t be anything wrong with it. Therefore, there was no point in questioning it.

 

He didn’t know what would happen to them. He didn’t know where they would go. Whether they would go anywhere.

 

Castiel knew, though, that it didn’t matter.

 

Catching on to Dean’s wrist, just a few inches from where he was holding Castiel so tenderly, he squeezed. “You’re the only thing I want. Nothing else. Just you.”

 

Dean’s shoulders relaxed and he seemed to lean into Castiel’s personal space right away. He smiled. “Good,” he said.

 

This time, when they finally kissed, Castiel was entirely sober.

 

He was drunk on Dean’s lips and tongue within seconds.

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


They couldn’t do much past kissing due to Castiel’s bruised ribs. They didn’t so much as shed a piece of clothing that day, really - just moved from the sofa to Castiel’s bed, so as not to be caught by Anna or any of the servants, and laid there together.

 

Legs entwined, fingers intertwined. Not even talking much - mostly simply looking at each other, making up for all the months they had had to spend apart.

 

They kissed sometimes. Each kiss was unprovoked and came about mid-sentence or out of silence. Castiel often looked into Dean’s eyes for so long his want built up in him like the tide and then he had to kiss him in order not to drown in it.

 

Then, sometimes, Dean smiled.

 

Castiel felt the need to capture that smile in a sketch as a matter of a keepsake, but it wasn’t even so hard resisting this urge. Whenever he imagined getting up from the bed and leaving Dean there alone, he tossed the idea like something rotten.

 

It was everything, that day. They didn’t need anything else.

 

They touched through pieces of clothing. Dean’s fingers soothed the cuts and scratches on Castiel’s face and kissed them. Those kisses were so light Castiel barely felt them, but it was enough to know that they were truly there and they weren’t just imagined.

 

Every time Castiel realized that  _ Dean _ was truly there, he felt the shiver of happiness in his stomach.

 

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” Castiel said at one point, out loud. “I cannot believe you crossed the ocean for me.”

 

Dean looked away sheepishly. His waistcoat was a deep green color, matching Castiel’s a little, matching his own eyes perfectly. “Come here,” he said.

 

Castiel grinned, the corner of his mouth lifting in an expectant smile. He shuffled closer on the bed, momentarily ignoring the pain his ribs were causing, until he was pressed against Dean.

 

Dean leaned in and held himself up on his elbow. “Dearest Cas,” he said in a whisper. He placed a soft kiss on Castiel’s cheek before going on. “Your last letter made me the happiest man in New York, perhaps in the world.”

 

“What are you doing?” Castiel asked in a small voice, exhaled it, really. He knew, though - Dean was reciting the letter that never arrived from memory.

 

Dean ran his fingers through Castiel’s hair and kissed him again. “Shh,” he murmured, his lips barely an inch above Castiel’s skin. “I cannot tell you how long it has been since I first wished for it. Your words finally filled that emptiness I had felt for so long. You were right. Our shared sadness has finally brought us light.”

 

“You don’t have to… Dean…” Castiel trailed off.

 

Dean waited for it, then smiled.  _ I want to _ , he seemed to say with how close he was to Cas, how easy it was for them to be touching.

 

“The only thing I can say is that I would terminate our friendship if it was to become something more - but I should still rather keep it as the base for it, for our friendship has brought me nothing but happiness. Cas, I have never trusted anyone, aside from my brother, with my truths and lies. You are the only one I trust with that and my life. To be regarded in the same way by you is more than I have dared to wish for. I don’t have an explanation for it, either, but I have stopped seeking one. Your presence,” Dean brushed his fingers down Castiel’s jawline and to his neck, “has filled me with enough. I have to see you and touch you.” Dean pressed down on Castiel’s shoulder and he leaned in, lips against his skin, dragging down that same way, jawline to neck. Then back up again, to Castiel’s ear. “I have bought my ticket. If you shall have me, I will be in London on the seventeenth of May.”

 

Castiel swallowed thickly. “You - you forgot.”

 

“Forgot about what?”

 

Looking up, Castiel braced his palm against Dean’s chest. “You have to sign your letters.”

 

Dean bit down on his lip. Before he answered, he caught Cas’ mouth in a kiss and licked his lips afterwards. “Yours,” he said. Castiel could feel his breath hitch at the back of his throat. “Truly. Affectionately.”

 

“Dean,” Castiel finished.

 

They kissed again.


	4. EPILOGUE

**EPILOGUE:**

 

**I’M NOT LEAVING HERE WITHOUT YOU**

 

_ (Supernatural / 08x02) _

  
  
  


They were leaving East End and taking a short walk, mostly to get a whiff of fresh air.

 

Castiel had invited Dean to go with him when he was scheduled to teach his classes - for once, he didn’t mind being observed, even though it was during an activity he wasn’t absolutely confident in.

 

He understood that Dean needed time to process. Much like Cas, Dean had never taken the time in New York to pay attention to the lower class and the absolute poverty some people had to live in. Much like Cas, Dean blamed himself for it now.

 

They weren’t talking much, each satisfied with the other’s company.

 

“This is why,” Dean said all of a sudden. His cane was again making that old familiar  _ clop-clop _ sound every time it hit the pavement. Castiel marvelled at it.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“This is why I love you,” he explained.

 

Castiel stopped dead in his tracks and looked at Dean, who had stopped as well. Over his shoulders, Castiel could see the docks and the Thames. He could hear someone at the corner of the street shouting that a beggar had stolen bread from him. A group of kids played ball just a couple of houses down. The birds were chirping, even the goddamned birds. The sun hit Dean’s face just so, casting shadows on his cheeks as it shone through his eyelashes and fell upon his skin. None of it was important.

 

“You love me?” he asked dumbly.

 

Dean laughed. “What did you think? That I was here because I hated you?”

 

“It’s just - I haven’t had that said often to me, and I just - it’s good to hear it. Of course I love you too.”

 

For a brief second, Castiel wished they could kiss in the open. The streets were friendly and open during the night, but being so affectionate in daylight wasn’t an option for any kind of couple. And he didn’t want a single peck on the lips - he wanted a proper kiss, he wanted Dean’s hands pulling him close and he wanted to feel it, really feel it.

 

They still hadn’t done anything since that first day - they had slipped into this companionable friendship with kissing, but they were almost shy to go beyond it.

 

“Anyhow - you were saying?” Castiel asked after they had exchanged a glance and a smile.

 

“Yes, that this is why I love you.”

 

“What is?”

 

“You don’t question them,” Dean explained. “You want to help. You don’t accuse them. You don’t tell them,  _ you should have done better for yourself, and what of your children! _ You don’t do that. You look at the cause and accuse that. You want to fix it. You blame the cause, not the result. You simply - you are a good man, Cas.

 

Cas could feel his blush before it really happened, and he abashedly looked away so as not to be seen and caught. “I am average. We should all aspire to be more.”

 

“But we aren’t,” Dean argued. “It is rather selfish of me, to admire this about you so.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“Oh, it is. You were the same about me and it changed everything.”

 

“I had no reason to question you,” Castiel said quietly.

 

“I suppose I meant - you never pushed. When you saw I didn’t wish to talk about some matters, you let it be until I was ready. You see? And you’ve never asked about this,” he said, motioning down to his cane and to his leg; to his limp. “That is the first thing anyone ever asks about.  _ How come you cannot walk, Mr Winchester? You’re a young man! _ Or  _ It must be terrible to suffer such an injury at a young age _ . It never bothered you, you never asked.”

 

Castiel bit down on his lip. He wondered if he should respond seriously or whether he should try to lighten the mood with a joke. In the end, he settled for a simple shrug of shoulders.

 

“I cannot explain it,” he said. “I figured you would tell me if you wanted to, and that is all I can ask. I don’t want favors and forced truths. I want it as it is, as it comes.”

 

They started walking again and Dean’s palm briefly brushed against Cas’.

 

“Come to my hotel with me.”

 

Cas, of course, never considered  _ no _ for an answer when it came to Dean.

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


Dean was staying at  _ Bradbury’s _ , not one of the most luxurious hotels, but one that was rumored to not have two rooms that were the same.

 

Dean’s was designed in the style of Louis XIV, with bright colors, a big chandelier, white drapes over the windows and a large bed with curtains, decorated in white and gold. Save for a table also painted in white and a chair, the room was otherwise empty, the first impression of grandeur misleading.

 

Castiel noticed that Dean had a bottle of whiskey on the table, though unopened, and his heart squeezed when he saw a pile of letters tied together with a piece of thread lying next to it.

 

“Shall we undress?” Dean asked matter-of-factly when they arrived.

 

His tone made Cas shiver and he couldn’t quite come up with a counter argument - possibly because he didn’t wish to.

 

As much as he’d been enjoying simply having Dean’s company, he’d secretly been waiting for this to happen. The kisses quickly became not enough - though they were always wonderful. They got them excited for nothing, though - Castiel wanted to kiss  _ and _ touch, and at the back of his mind he always added,  _ and lick and bite. _

 

Castiel was already shrugging off his jacket when he, also matter-of-factly, said, “I have never done this before.”

 

Dean didn’t say anything, but Cas didn’t need him to - he only needed to inform them both out loud so that they knew.

 

Dean was quicker to undress, possibly because he had had more experience.

 

There was no sense of shyness or shame, though Cas was a little nervous when he stepped out of his underwear and joined Dean, equally naked, in the bed.

 

Involuntarily, his eyes automatically went to Dean’s right leg. He was quick to avert his eyes and search Dean’s face instead. It felt good - Dean’s scent was in the air, attractive as always, and the loose bed curtains made it feel intimate and safe.

 

“It’s fine, should you want to look,” Dean told Cas.

 

Cas blushed, embarrassed that he couldn’t control himself. He was worried he had overstepped and instead of looking, he withdrew, sitting up on the bed with knees pressed up to his chest.

 

Dean, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind, reclining comfortably on his back.

 

He folded his hands under his head and said again, “It’s fine to look. It’s not a pretty sight, mind you, but we are here together for a reason. You are free to see me.”

 

Castiel took a deep breath. Before he looked at the leg, he looked at Dean. He tried to tell him that he wouldn’t ever dare judge him or love him any less for his imperfections, without having to say those words out loud.

 

Dean gave him a small smile, now a little nervous himself. Even though it was meant as reassurance, it made Cas doubt that it was really okay.

 

“I think I should kiss you first,” he said, trying his tone at playfulness.

 

“Be my guest,” Dean joked.

 

Castiel moved slowly. He thought about every move but he found that it was no good - he was stiff and tense if he was thinking too much - so he tried to let go.  _ What would you like to do? _ He asked himself instead and once his mind supplied an answer, he followed it without hesitation.

 

Therefore, he straddled Dean’s hips and hovered over him.

 

Dean looked beautiful as Cas looked down upon him. His face looked open and expectant, eager to learn what would happen next. His lips were slightly parted again, but this time, it was a clear invitation, not a thing of habit. He was looking up at Cas with eyes wide and trusting. In the bright colors of the room, his freckles stood out. And Cas wanted him - god, he had wanted him since that very first night, but it was nearly impossible to cope with it now. To Cas, Dean was everything.

 

When he went for the kiss, even Dean was surprised that he was so gentle about it.

 

Cas’ first impulse was to go right in with his tongue and see what it was like to disappear inside Dean when they were both so ready for it, but he resisted.

 

For some reason, even though Cas was the less experienced one, it was incredibly important to him to show Dean that he was going to take care of him and there was no need to be afraid. It was an odd thought, but Cas couldn’t help it.

 

They kissed for a moment, slow and careful. It was a wholly different experience from any kiss they had shared before - they weren’t just kissing, after all. They were skin on skin and the added friction was already making Cas hard. He remembered all those nights when he had helped himself to an orgasm with the thought of Dean in his mind; he’d imagined the perfect scenario, yet it couldn’t compare to this reality.

 

In a sudden burst of bravery, Cas broke the kiss and moved down - both with his body and his tongue.

 

Dean’s hands, which had been resting at Cas’ hips, not so much grabbing as keeping him in place, relaxed. He exhaled when Cas licked his way down Dean’s neck and to his chest.

 

Cas’ ass was against Dean’s thighs now, strong and warm, his hands by Dean’s sides. Beneath his own legs, he could feel Dean’s, and a certain rough unevenness - a rough  _ something _ where his skin met the skin of Dean’s right leg. Cas ignored it. He was moving down inch by inch, his tongue finally exploring Dean’s body as he had always wished to do. He knew that soon, he would get to the softness of Dean’s belly, taste the saltiness and sweat and body there, and then below that - the leg. He was no longer ashamed or afraid to look at it.

 

“The story goes,” Dean breathed out, his voice a little strained, when Cas got to his hips with his mouth. “Well, here is the story.”

 

Cas looked back up at him, but Dean wasn’t looking at him.

 

Cas was now settled between Dean’s legs, and since Dean interrupted his exploring, Castiel finally looked. He saw that Dean started talking in the right moment - his injury started  _ just _ below the hip.

 

Much of his right leg was badly scarred. On his inner thigh, there was a sort of dent, as if someone had tried to punch a hole in it. With the uneven skin around it, it almost looked like a valley surrounded by mountains.

 

“The story goes that my grandfather was a great man, once. But if you ask me - a great man is always a great man, but a crooked man can sometimes pretend to be great. Anyhow, my grandfather was once a great man, or so I am told. No, stay,” Dean said quickly when Cas started to move away. “Please.”

 

“Of course,” Cas whispered. He sat between Dean’s legs. He was afraid to overstep again, so he gently rested his palm on Dean’s left thigh and slowly rubbed circles into the skin.

 

“The War changed him. When he came home, he was haunted by night terrors and the only thing that used to help him was whiskey. He drank a lot, that much I can remember for myself. One night - well. He lived with us, you see.”

 

“Your family, you mean?”

 

“Yes, back when my mother was still alive.” Dean blinked. “He stayed up long hours, but we weren’t ones to dine until dawn. So by the time he went to bed, we would have been asleep for hours. Then one night - oh, damn.”

 

Castiel swallowed. “You don’t have to tell me.”

 

“I ought to,” Dean said. “I ought to tell someone, after all these years.”

 

“Do you want me to be touching you or would you rather I don’t?”

 

Dean simply nodded. “One night, during winter, my grandfather was drunk out of his mind. He was cold, or so I suppose, and so he wanted to keep the fire in the fireplace going. However, all the servants were asleep as well, and so he had to be the one to maintain it. He wasn’t seeing clearly, I bet, and one of the logs he wanted to throw in remained halfway out of the fireplace. Then my grandfather fell asleep.”

 

“Oh, Dean,” Cas mumbled. He almost wished that the story would end here, or that Dean wouldn’t finish it.

 

“The rug caught on fire, a Persian. Oh, I don’t even know. The house was on fire when my father woke me up. Sam couldn’t have been older than seven. He told us to run, my father - he told us that we had to get out of the house - that he would get our mother but that we needed to get out - Shit.”

 

Castiel flinched. He shuffled on the bed again. Slowly, taking a deep breath, he touched Dean’s right hip just above where the scarring began.

 

“Forgive me, I cannot tell the tale as it should be told. My father never managed to get my mother safe out of the house. My grandfather didn’t make it.”

 

“You almost didn’t make it.”

 

“Yes.” Dean smiled sadly and finally looked at Cas. “I don’t think of myself as injured. I don’t think of myself as  _ crippled _ . I don’t regret this and I need you to know that.”

 

Cas nodded, for he didn’t know what else to say. He never saw Dean that way, either.

 

“I was running out of the house with Sam. The place was already falling apart. A wall started to collapse. I got my brother out in one piece, but part of the wall fell on me and crushed me - my right side. Thankfully, the fire only got to the leg before my father got me. I survived but my mother didn’t and - However. My leg was broken, that’s where this comes from,” Dean touched the valley-like dent in his thigh. “The bone was jutting out, it was gruesome. It never grew back properly.”

 

Castiel hummed.

 

It was a tragic story and his heart ached, but he was still at a loss for words.

 

For what does one say?  _ I love you anyhow _ , as if Cas loved Dean in spite or despite his leg. He simply loved him.  _ You’re beautiful _ , as if beauty depended on perfection; as if perfection depended on this.  _ I’m glad you survived _ , which would have been applicable and true, if only Cas didn’t understand Dean’s guilt. The way the man carried himself and presented himself, closed himself from others, made perfect sense. Cas knew his words wouldn’t cure it magically.

 

“May I kiss you again?” he asked after a moment of silence.

 

It took Dean out of the memory, which is exactly what Cas had wanted to do. He blinked again - and Cas was thankful there were no tears - and then he managed a smile. “Please,” he said.

 

Again, Cas went in gently. They kissed for longer now, a few minutes at least. Even though the story Dean had shared remained hanging over their heads in its heaviness, they were both somewhat freer in touching and seeing each other.

 

Dean’s hands roamed across Cas’ body just as much as Castiel’s had, and when Cas went back to licking his way down Dean’s torso, Dean pulled at his hair and moved his body as if he were opening it up.

 

His back arched when Cas kissed between his ribs, and he breathed out, loudly, the beginning of a moan in his voice, when Cas grabbed his hips firmly and circled his tongue around Dean’s bellybutton.

 

The satin sheets slid against their skin with each movement.

 

“What do you want me to do?” Cas asked, looking for direction, when he got to Dean’s crotch. They were both breathing heavily, and they were both hard.

 

“I want you to do whatever it is you want to do,” said Dean.

 

“I would -”

 

“Cas,” Dean said. He pulled at Cas’ shoulder until Cas followed and they were face to face. Cas noticed that where his lips were swollen from kissing Dean’s body wherever they could, Dean’s were swollen from where he had bit on them. Dean cupped Cas’ face. “Do whatever you want to me. Yours.”

 

Castiel grinned almost dreamily. “Affectionately.”

 

“Yes,” Dean agreed.

 

Cas leaned down and pressed a short kiss into Dean’s shoulder. Then he moved his hands down Dean’s sides, over his hips and he gripped his thighs.

 

Dean was the stronger of them, but he moved as Cas wished him to. When Cas started moving Dean’s thighs up and around his waist, he helped.

 

Dean hooked his legs around Cas’ back and smiled. “I so wished you would want to do  _ that _ .”

 

Castiel laughed and the sound suddenly slipped into a moan when he moved and their erections brushed.

 

Dean seemed almost hungry when his hands slid down Cas’ back and squeezed, pressing him closer when they got to his ass.

 

“Thank you,” Cas said all of a sudden, and he himself wasn’t certain whether he meant  _ thank you for letting me fuck you _ or  _ thank you for sharing everything with me _ . Both, perhaps.

 

He only got a nod in response. It seemed as if though Dean had been transported into another world already. Looking at his eager face, at the flush in his cheeks and the tension in his muscles, Cas couldn’t say he would want to complain.

 

They were awkward at first - as much as Cas  _ wanted _ to do it, Dean had to help him through everything. Cas had never considered the amount of time that went into the preparation and once that was done, accompanied by a few whimpers from Dean’s side, Cas couldn’t find the right angle for the life of him. They giggled through it as if it was the funniest thing that had happened to them.

 

Once again, the laughter faded and was replaced by something much deeper and much simpler  at the same time once Cas was inside Dean.

 

He had never felt anything like it. It wasn’t what he had imagined, either - he had read erotic novels sold on street corners and they spoke of warmth and tightness and fullness. He didn’t know about the latter, but Dean’s body was far warmer than he’d imagined and tight just enough to hug him in. It embraced his cock from each side and he knew in that moment that getting himself off with his hand would never be enough again.

 

He said as much out loud.

 

“You haven’t yet had the chance to see what I can do with my mouth,” was Dean’s response.

 

Dean turned out to be filthy in bed, all dirty talk combined with a needy pull of hands and movement of his hips.

 

What he said - and with a spark in his eyes, a promise for the future - made Castiel’s heart threaten him with an attack.

 

“Cas,” Dean said tightly. He was still hugging Castiel close with his legs, but his arms were above his head as if he needed to stretch and put his energy  _ somewhere _ . His stomach had fallen in, his ribs showing as he breathed unevenly and deeply. “You feel so, so good, but  _ please _ move.”

 

Castiel could feel drops of sweat run down his back as he strained not to move too fast.

 

Even though he wasn’t eighteen, not for a good few years now, he knew he wouldn’t be able to last long - it felt too good. Castiel tried to prolong it as much as he could, but when Dean asked, he had to move.

 

He carefully slid out, biting down on his lip as he did so, and then thrust back in.

 

“Fuck,” he breathed out at the same time as Dean moaned - a lazy, raspy sound at the back of his throat.

 

Cas could already feel his orgasm starting to build.

 

“C’mere,” Dean breathed out and he pulled Cas close.

 

Their kiss was messy. Dean’s legs opened as Cas started to thrust at an awkward pace, and neither of them could focus on what their mouths were doing.

 

At one point, Dean moaned straight into Cas’ mouth and it seemed to vibrate on his lips. Cas couldn’t hold back and moaned as well, and they both smiled into the kiss.

 

“Don’t hold back,” Dean said, and though it could mean either  _ fuck me harder _ or  _ just come if you want to _ , Cas figured it probably meant the latter.

 

“Sorry,” Cas mumbled as his thrusts grew erratic. He groaned loudly, closing his eyes, when his orgasm threatened to spill. He wanted to pull out, but Dean closed him in with his legs again and Cas’ hips buckled and then, suddenly, he was coming. He failed to notice whether Dean was close or whether he had said anything to Cas’ apology; rather selfishly, he couldn’t hold on to any of it any longer. His thoughts were an incoherent mess as he pushed into Dean a few more times before his orgasm left him spent and panting.

 

“Kiss me,” Dean said, breaking through Cas’ gaze.

 

Without thought, Cas pulled out and leaned over Dean, kissing him, his mouth open and hot, just like Dean.

 

“Tell me to touch myself,” Dean asked again, and again, Cas obliged.

 

“Baby. Touch yourself,” he said, suddenly sobered as he watched Dean’s face.

 

As Dean wrapped his hand around his cock, his eyes seemed to want to flutter closed, but he kept them open. His mouth opened in an ‘o’. He was staring at Cas with such intent Cas felt sad he had only come a couple of minutes ago and couldn’t get hard again so quickly.

 

Dean couldn’t manage any more requests once he started getting himself off, but Castiel had gotten the message.

 

He buried his fingers in Dean’s hair and pulled. Dean reacted wildly, his hand going faster.

 

Castiel had to take a deep breath before he could make himself speak, and he was surprised to hear his voice sound so confident and deep. “Come now,” he said, and then, “Come for me.”

 

Dean came moments later, staining Cas’ stomach and his own.

 

Neither of them looked ashamed about it.

 

They lay together a while afterwards, both re-living the experience. Cas had to repeat to himself that it had really happened, for dreams rarely come true.

 

“Take a bath with me,” Dean suggested after a while with a soft smile on his lips.

 

Castiel held himself up on his elbow and inspected Dean’s face. It was still the most symmetrical and beautiful face he had ever seen, the eyes were still as green, the freckles as permanent, and Cas loved him. “Stay with me.”

 

Dean’ expression turned serious. They hadn’t discussed the future, both of them preferring to live in the now, but Dean could see that Castiel meant what he said.

 

He nodded. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

  
  


**xxx**

  
  


Cas watched as Dean stirred awake in the bed. He still hadn’t gotten quite used to how beautiful a picture it paints, even though it had been weeks.

 

Dean mumbled something in his sleepy state and his hand automatically went out in search of Castiel’s body. When it didn’t find him, Dean’s eyes opened and he looked at the empty side of the bed with a frown.

 

“Don’t move,” Cas said gently, quietly, so as not to wake Dean up fully. “In fact, go back to sleep.”

 

“Wha’?”

 

“Go back to sleep. I’ll join you in a moment.”

 

Dean, who had been sleeping on his stomach, with the sheets only rolled halfway up his body, just to below his ass, looked over his shoulders. “Are you sketching me again?”

 

“Yes,” Cas admitted. “You are rather good at catching me at it, even though I attempt to do in secret.”

 

“That is because you’re terrible at secrets,” Dean explained sleepily and then simply rested his head on the pillow and went back to sleep, just as Cas had asked.

 

The sketch was nearly done. The anatomy lectures had definitely helped, but the nudes Castiel had been doing in the process were no practice - having Dean’s body right before him and being able to sketch it was  _ far _ more than he’d imagined.

 

Cas stopped what he was doing for a moment, though, thinking about what Dean had said.

 

_ That is because you’re terrible at secrets _ .

 

That was true. Trying to keep his love for Dean a secret had nearly killed him.

 

But Dean was just as bad - they had barely slept together for the first time when they told Anna and Garth about the nature of their relationship. Castiel had been serious about asking Dean to stay, and even if it meant being somewhat constricted by whatever society wanted to think of them, it was better than what Cas had imagined his life to be just a year ago.

 

They had the shade of the trees in Regent’s Park, they had early breakfasts, they had their talks of East End and Cas’ art and Dean’s wish to travel and see Sam again at some point. They had Balthazar, who knew about them and teased them – perhaps as much as Sam would have – and they had the now. What’s more, they were certain about having the future as well.They had each other.

 

Cas went back to his sketch.

 

He used to run - from his mother and from his own inability to make something of himself.

 

Looking upon Dean’s silhouette resting so peacefully in Cas’ bed, the only thing Cas let run now was the charcoal in his hand.

 

It sprinted across the paper, capturing a reality Cas was finally in love with; capturing happiness; capturing Dean.

  
  
  
  


**THE END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story. I greatly appreciate all kudos or comments that might come my way!
> 
> You're also welcome to hang out with me on Tumblr @d_claiborne. ♥


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